


Crossing Paths Again

by Nordic_Breeze



Series: Against All Odds [2]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Aftercare, Alcohol-induced Intoxication, Almost Kiss, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Awkward Conversations, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Cunnilingus, Eskimo Kisses, Eventual Smut, F/M, Flirting, Fluff and Angst, Forehead Kisses, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Reader-Insert, Romance, Sexual Tension, Smut, Suspense, Trying Very Hard To Be Submissive – Failing Miserably, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, alluding to previous dubi-con, mentions of child death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-01-12 08:34:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 34,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18442907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nordic_Breeze/pseuds/Nordic_Breeze
Summary: Three weeks after an attempted home robbery, Arthur Morgan once again finds his way into your life and you realize just how much this outlaw has gotten under your skin, and you under his. Can you two make it work against all odds or will your differences keep tearing you apart?





	1. Meeting Him Again

**Author's Note:**

> A sequel to "The home robbery that went horribly wrong. Or did it?" which can also be considered as a standalone oneshot. Feels, fluff, heavy angst, grief and melodrama. Smut in the final chapter.
> 
> Sourcres of inspiration other than the source material are Jane Austen's Pride and Perjudice and the Song of songs.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“They were from different worlds. But life, like the sea, has a way of bringing people together.” – Aquaman (2018)_

You’re busy listing up Dr. Mattock’s appointments for next week when the sound of a door bursting open followed by men shouting have you look up from your notes. No stranger to this kind of commotion you don’t even raise a brow but you’re quick to put the notebook aside and get ready to offer your assistance. As you move through the hallway on your way to the examination room, the uproar ensues. Aside from the flat and nasal tenor that is Dr. Mattock, you hear two men, one soft-spoken and silvery, and the other low, raspy and gruff. Isn’t there something familiar about the latter? You’re positive you’ve heard that voice before. Upon entering the exam room you realize that, indeed you have.

In the examination chair sits an elderly man with silver grey hair, bleeding heavily from his right arm. The doctor is hovering over the patient with his back to you and doesn’t notice you right away. A tall and brawny man in his late thirties wearing a black leather hat is holding onto the injured man’s shoulder. You’ve seen that hat before. You’ve worn that hat before. Exactly three weeks ago, when he’d snuck into your home in the middle of the night. You’d kept your cool and timed your actions well, thanks to which you’d managed to subdue him and tie him up whilst holding him at gunpoint, with the intent of calling Sheriff Gray to have him arrested. However, things had taken an unexpected turn, and – you blush just thinking about it.

He recognizes you as well. You both stare at each other, dumbstruck and mouths agape.

“Ah, there you are. A little assistance here, please."

“Yes doctor, of course.”

Aiding Dr. Mattock by handing him whatever he asks for and help applying pressure to the wound momentarily distracts you from the man on the opposite side of the examination chair.

Mr. Arthur Morgan.

You have been thinking of him more than you care to admit. And you suspect, but nevertheless try to ignore, that the intense pounding behind your ribs is not just due to the wounded fella at your hand or mere embarrassment. Try to deny it you may, but you have been hoping to meet Arthur Morgan again, fully believing it would never happen. And here he is, less than five feet away. 

“Yer gonna be allrite’.”

The sound of his low, raspy bass is enough to make your heart skip a beat as they say. Or two. Your attention remains on the man in the chair, but you throw a glance at the source of the gruff voice, whose owner lowers his head when you look up at him. You are not sure if he’s purposely avoiding your gaze or not.

“I know son,” the elderly man replies, his tone is light-spirited but not without strain. “It’s gonna take more to bring this old weasel down.”

Is he the man Arthur had told you about, the one that had been like a father to him? The sound of the entry door bursting open finds its way to your ears yet again, this time visibly startling you. Panicky shouting from the hallway outside means someone is in urgent need of medical assistance. As the bleeding has stopped, the doctor leaves you alone with the patient – and Arthur.

“Busy day?” the wounded man muses. “I reckon there’s enough of us fools in this town to keep you hard at work here,” he adds with a bit of humor to his voice. You offer a gawky smile in response. Half a minute later, Dr. Mattock appears in the doorway.

“I deeply apologize Sir, but one of the town hunters has gotten himself stuck in a bear trap and he is in need of my immediate attention. I will leave you in the good hands of Miss <y/n> here.”

Even if no name was mentioned, it could only be one person. Mr. Garret Gray is a dedicated huntsman, but not the brightest.

“Again?!” you blurt out.

“Again.” The doctor incredulously shakes his head.

“Why is he even a hunter?”

“Good question. The man is going to get himself killed one day. But today will not be that day. I trust you to take good care of our patient here, Miss <y/n>. The bleeding is under control and the cut has been cleaned. All that is needed is a few stitches. Eight to ten should be sufficient. Give him a dose of that new anesthetic.”

Before disappearing out the door, he turns his attention to the patient. “You’re in good hands, Sir.”

“Oh, I have no doubt,” the silver fox grins. You take note of how calm he is in spite of the deep cut and exposed flesh on his arm. He is far more relaxed than Mr. Morgan, that’s for sure. No, you cannot let yourself be distracted. You need to stay focused. A good way to do that is to start finding the necessary equipment. That is when the source of your distraction decides to speak. To you.

“Is there anythin’ I can do to help?”

“Um, yes.” You point at the wall behind him. “Can you get me that bottle with the red label on the shelf over there?”

You fill up a syringe with the viscous liquid from the bottle Arthur hands you and inject it into the subcutaneous skin surrounding the lesion.

“It’s a new type of sedative. It won’t make you fall asleep but it will stop the body from feeling pain in the area where it’s injected,” you explain. “The effect last about one hour, but it’s going to take three to four minutes before it kicks in.”

“Is this really safe?” Arthur questions, his eyes tracking the needle’s movement.

You cook a brow. “As safe as anything, I guess.”

_Safer than stopping trains and robbing banks you reckon._

“You feelin’ anything.”

“Not a thing,” the old man assures. “What, you think I’m scared of a needle?”

“What’s your name, Sir?” you ask as you wait for the analgesic to set in. The two men exchange glances, the one standing upright giving an almost imperceptible nod, which you would’ve surely missed if you hadn’t been watching him so closely.

“Hosea,” he eventually responds. You don’t bother asking for a last name. You doubt he’d give you a truthful answer anyways, or an answer at all.

“What happened to you, Mr. Hosea?”

“Just a, - rabid raccoon. The thing came out of nowhere.”

A raccoon.

_Sure._

“This looks nothing like a raccoon bite, Sir. Or any animal for that matter,” you oppose, the furrow on your forehead being rather telling of the fact that you don’t believe a word of what he said.

“I’ve seen enough injuries from animals to know, both wild and domestic. So unless that raccoon was wielding a knife… - yes, I also recognize a stab wound when I see one.”

“Erm…”

“Sir, Hosea. I just want to help. Knowing what happened can help us asses the risk of and help prevent possible complications, like infections.”

“Oh, you know. Just one of those things.”

No, you really don’t know. From the corner of your eye, you spot Arthur’s miniscule, acknowledging nods to the old man’s answer. You poke the latter with the syringe, near the laceration.

“You feel that?”

“Feel what?”

The effect kicking in, you commence stitching up the wound. The room is eerily quiet save from the occasional praise from Hosea on job well done to you and vague comments alluding to upcoming jobs or events directed at Arthur. As on cue, the doctor returns as you fasten the last stitch.

“I once again must compliment you on excellent work, Miss.”

He turns to Hosea. “Didn’t I say you were in good hands? Miss <y/n> here is the best nurse I’ve ever had working for me.”

You slightly blush at your employers’ compliments as he is studying your handiwork. What he says next makes you blush heavily but for other reasons altogether.

“Oh, she can tie a knot all right,” the good doctor chuckles. “If this woman was to tie someone up, you can rest assure they would not get anywhere.”

“Oh, I got no doubt,” Arthur sniggers. Your cheeks are now on fire. _Great._

“Not that she’d ever do it of course. This woman is as pure and innocent as a midsummer’s night.”

You. Wish. The. Entire. Floor. Would. Open. And. Swallow. You. Whole.

Oblivious to the palpable tension in the room, Dr. Mattock excuses himself once again after telling Hosea to return in ten days to have the stiches removed, leaving you to put on a dressing and tidy up.

“So,” Hosea begins, his steel blue eyes shifting between you and his companion with a mischievous twinkle. “How do you two know each other?”

The question takes you both by surprise. Awkward mumbling ensues to the old man’s amusement.

~*~

For the rest of the day you keep losing your train of thought, as a certain outlaw just won’t leave your mind alone. You are relieved to finally be done for the day, only to find out that the universe is not done with its surprises on your behalf as when you exit the doctor’s office, you are greeted by the very same outlaw.

“Um, Hosea thought I should, eh, he said maybe I should offer to take you home.”

You stare at him with marble-round eyes, dumbstruck and gawping, making his face fall. He drops his head; the brim of his hat does quick work at hiding the disillusionment on his face. Almost quick enough for you to not notice. Almost.

“Not that you need anyone to take you home. I just thought I come and see how you was doin' and eh, never mind. I won’t bother you, miss.”

“No, it’s not- you’re no bother. I-I just didn’t expect- eh, thanks for the offer. Which I gladly accept.”

You spot a grin tugging at his lip, all but gone in a flash, as he is quick to regain his blank-but-sullen guise. He’s equally quick to swing into the saddle where he reaches out for you, pulling you up with ease. You gawkily fumble with your hands; lost as to where to place them, you end up holding onto his gun belt. Warmth surges through you at the soft and mellow tone to his voice as he is sweet-talking his steed before pulling the bridles to get her moving. It’s a quiet ride at first, but before long a conversation is somewhat floating. You talk about everything or nothing in particular or you ride in silence as Arthur’s mare leisurely paces through the dusty streets of Rhodes. At some point, your hands shift from the gun belt to your escort’s arms, a little over the elbows. How did that happen?

It’s a fifteen-to-eighteen-minute walk from Dr. Mattock’s office to where you live at the outskirts of town, but Arthur keeps such a slow pace on his mare, it takes almost thirty minutes before you reach the fence circling your cottage. You wonder if it’s due to worry you might fall off. No, you don’t think so. It doesn’t feel right somehow. He’d asked if you were comfortable a couple of times but not once had he asked if you had trouble holding on. You avert your gaze as he helps you down because if you had looked into those aquamarine green of his, your cheeks would have surely been on fire. You try in vain to ignore the burning ache in your chest from realization that Arthur will soon be on his way. You’re not quite ready to let go.

“Um, you want to come in for a bit?” you ask with a bit of tremor to your voice, accompanied by klutzy fumbling with your hands. “I do owe you a glass of whiskey.”

As you expected, his sole response is a bewildered frown.

“Remember when I asked if you wanted a glass of water and you said you’d rather have whiskey instead and I said maybe later?” You ramble on, eyes on the ground, until a low-key chuckle reveals when remembrance strikes.

“Allrite.”

Inside, you gesture for Arthur to take a seat on your couch, the one near the window with the most afternoon sun, while you make a pot of coffee to mix with the liquor. You place a whiskey-filled beaker and a mug filled with steaming hot coffee on the table in front of your guest.

“I didn’t know what you wanted or if you wanted the drinks mixed or not so I got you both separately,” you blabber, tucking away an invisible lock.

You sit down next to him with your own drink in hand, hoping he doesn’t take note of your unsteady hands. You can hardly believe it. Arthur Morgan is really here, back in your living room, though this time as an invited and most welcome house guest. Every time the broad-shouldered and husky outlaw with the mesmerizing eyes had found his way into your mind since that night - and following morning, you had forced yourself to think about something else or distracted yourself by staying busy, lying to yourself by shrugging off your time with Arthur as a sweet and cherished, but one-night-only event. Which is why, in spite of the fact that you’ve been thinking of him every day for the last three weeks, you hadn't come to realize just how much of an impression he’d left - until today.

“How’s Hosea?” you eventually ask, breaking the silence.

“He’s good. Got him back to camp after you stitched him up. Then I went back to meet you. Thinkin’ I should thank you for takin’ good care of him.”

“I was just doing my job.”

“Yeah, I know. Is just that, not everyone wants to treat us – outlaws.”

You nod, swirling your mug. No matter your opinion on outlaws, or on anyone for that matter, you’d never refuse treatment to a person in need. You’d sworn an oath, something you take very seriously.

“How did you find out about me?” you digress. “Why my house?”

He draws a deep breath, staring into his coffee. The whiskey tumbler stands empty on the table.

“I was helping this feller I met while out ridin'. Idiot got kicked by his horse. I gave him s’mthing for the pain and got his horse back. As a way of sayin’ thanks I guess, he told me ’bout this wealthy couple, not rich like Braithwaites but still well-off, that might be worth a- eh, night visit.”

He is talking about your parents. You wonder who this ‘fellar’ might be. It’s true, your family aren’t Braithwaite-rich, but your father has made a decent fortune thanks to some wise real estate investments in Saint Denis from money he’s earned over the years working as a gardener for the Braithwaites. Over the past two decades, he’s had to fire some folks. Furthermore, you reckon not everyone’s happy with his Saint Denis’ business deals.

“What did this fellar look like?”

Arthur shrugs. “Like any of'em sorry drunks wanderin’the town streets.”

“So that’s how you heard about my parents, but what about me? Did you go to them first? They haven’t-”

“Nah. Fella I helped said it might not be worth the risk as they live so close to the sheriff's office,” Arthur elaborates, taking a generous sip before continuing. “He'd also heard their oldest was living alone and isolated enough to not draw attention from neighbors. I thought you was a fella, as most women usually –“

“Stay with their parents until they marry?” You finish the sentence for him.

“Yeah, I- it seemed like such an easy job I didn’t even check this place beforehand. Had I known you was a lady I wouldn’t’ve gone through with it.”

“Why do house robberies in the first place?”

It’s a silly question, you know. He is an outlaw for goodness sake. House robberies is likely one of the least shady outlaw-kind of stuff he does. Yet you can’t help but to be a little confrontational.

“Just seems like a good way of getting money without hurting folk or threatening to hurt’em.”

Your hand closes around the omnipresent locket around your neck, your fingertips tracing the familiar ornate pattern. “There is no clean way to be an outlaw, Arthur,” you oppose, clenching the medallion. “Even in the off chance you should manage to completely avoid violence, you’ll always end up hurting people.”

He lowers his head and places the near-empty mug on the table. “Yeah, I know.”

You sit in silence for a while. A minute maybe? It feels longer. You have a taste at the coffee-whiskey-sugar drink, twirling the half-empty mug one full turn before indulging in another sip. Your closed fist swings back and forth on the chain, making a _wush-wush_ sound.

“Why is it so important to ya?” he asks, nudging his head at your closed hand. Or, at the adornment inside. You remove the necklace and open the locket, shoving him the pictures inside.

“It’s of me and Anna. My sister. From almost fifteen years ago.” A shadow of a smile forms on your lips as memories of that day fill your mind. Memories of Anna, your darling baby sister. Alive. Laughing. Happy. Adventurous and curious about the world around her.

“I’m the oldest of three,” you start, staring out into nothing, that sinking dread settling in your stomach, as you know where this conversation is going. “I was nine when Anna was born. It sort of became my responsibility to look after her while mother was cooking and cleaning, I guess. She did a lot of that. Guess she preferred it to spending time with us girls. She loved us make no mistake. She just ain't good with children. But I didn’t mind. I never did. Anna was the sweetest, kindest –“

You pause, tears already burning behind your eyes. You take a deep breath. Arthur is patiently waiting for you to continue. You swallow hard.

“Then one day, exactly one week before her seventh birthday, we were playing hide and seek in the forest behind our old house, as we had so many times before. I didn’t know about the –“

You pause again, squeezing your eyelids. It’s been years since you’ve talked about Anna, or that dreadful day almost ten years ago to anyone, including your own family. You’ve cried over her so many times, you thought you had no more tears left to shed. But apparently you do.

“I turned my back for just a second. Then I heard the scream. When I turned around…”

With trembling hands, you put the mug on the table. Lukewarm fluid spills onto the tabletop. Arthur reaches out to help, but halts mid-air. You pull your legs up to your chest, and hug your arms around your knees. You notice Arthur shifting beside you, moving closer. Even through his - and your clothes, you can still feel his warmth. It soothes you enough that you are able to continue.

“A tree had fallen over her back and – it crushed her. But it didn’t kill her. Not right away. She suffered for hours before succumbing to severe internal injuries the following night. I never left her side. I swear, I-”

Deep breath.

“I stayed awake into the night, watching over her, comforting her and caring for her the best I could. I wanted to be there when she died, to hold her hand, stroke her hair and tell her she had nothing to be scared of. But I fell asleep. When I woke up, my father told me that she’d – she’d –“

Before you know it, you’re sobbing and shaking uncontrollably against Arthur’s chest. He wraps both his arms around you, hugging you close as he rocks you back and forth, kissing your head.

“I betrayed her,” you cry. “I should’ve watched over her. I should’ve been with her when she died.“

He places his thumb and index on your chin, gently pushing upward so he can look you in the eyes. The compassion in his ocean blue has your sobbing slow down. He uses his thumb to whisk away the moist streaks running down your cheeks.

“I’m real sorry, <y/n>. I know how it’s like to lose someone like that. And how much it hurts.”

The hurt in his voice leaves no doubt as to the sincerity of his words. You want to hear his story but you don’t want to pressure him. Besides, you don’t think you’d have the strength for it now anyways. You close your hand around his.

“It’s why I became a nurse,” you sniffle. “To spend the rest of my life doing what I can so that others won’t have to feel the pain of losing someone they love. And to heal people’s wounds. Both the physical ones and the ones in their soul.”

You pause to wipe your tears. “I couldn’t save Anna but if I can save just one person-”

“There’s nothing you could've done,” Arthur stress. You shake your head. He cups your face, gently stroking your cheek still moist from tears with his thumb.

“You did everything right, you hear,” he whispers, his otherwise raspy voice now all of a sudden so warm and soft. You hold his gaze. Or, maybe it is he who holds yours. Your eyes glide from his dazzling bluish-green to his lips. He too, has shifted his attention from your eyes to your mouth. You can feel his warm breath whisk over your lips, a hint of whiskey lingering in the air.

He’s so close.

Until he’s not.

He pulls away. “I’m sorry, I- eh.”

“For what?” It’s barely a whisper, you wonder if he even heard you as he doesn’t respond.

You sit in silence for a few minutes - again, you plucking at your cuticles, Arthur staring at a fixed spot on the floor. The atmosphere is tense, and oddly comforting, somehow best described as both awkward and soothing - and something else. You lift your eyes to the bulky chair in the corner. Arthur follows your gaze. You both remember well what happened there.

“I, eh-“ he begins, attempting to address the elephant in the room. Then he breaks off. A chortle escapes you. Yeah, you don’t really know how to bring it up either. He tries again. “You meant all that you said last time I was here?”

“I meant every word I said that night,” you respond earnestly. “Well, not about the going to jail part, obviously. I mean, I did mean it when I said it but then I, eh, changed my mind.”

The coffee’s probably gone cold by now. You lean forward to pour some more whiskey in your glasses, handing the tumbler to Arthur and keeping the mug to yourself.

“You draw really well.” You take a swing. It’s much more whiskey than coffee this time, making your throat burn. “You got talent. I mean it.”

The man beside you cooks a smile, swirling the beaker in his hand, creating a mini-whiskey-whirlpool. Despite the circumstances in which you met him, an outlaw even, you feel so safe and comfortable in his presence. You turn from him slightly, hiding from him a bittersweet smile.

“I know this may sound weird, but I’m grateful to have met you,” you confess, tugging subconsciously at your lip. The confession is not just for your companion but for yourself as well. His surprise prompts a spontaneous chuckle.

“All right, ma’am. Whatever you say.”

“I _am_.”

He puts the beaker to his mouth and empties the content in one go.

“Since when?”

“Hmm.” You push your lips, pondering how to convince him. A moment later, you lean forward and snatch the hat clear off his head with an impish grin.

“Since doing this,” you tease, placing his hat on top of your head.

“Hey, gimme that back.”

He leans towards you, stretching his arm over your head. You lean back and away from him as you place your palm against his chest, sending him an _oh no, don’t you dare_ look. Arthur moves closer until your upper body is practically in a horizontal position. It ends how it has to end. You fall backwards, pulling the outlaw with you until you’re both lying flat on the couch with Arthur on top of you. Your childish giggles morph into a sudden gasp as he embraces you and buries his face in your hair, his raspy, chuckling voice sending sweet, tantalizing shivers all the way to your toes. And a more, well, intimate area higher up. His lips brush against your cheek before coming to rest at the corner of your mouth, where he lingers. You turn to face him. For the second time tonight, he is close enough that you can feel his warm breath on your lips. And again, for the second time tonight, he pulls away when his lips are a mere whisker from yours, disillusionment and frustration firing through you as you once again think of the kiss that never happened.

“Sorry, I-."

“You know damn well I want you to-“

You stop before you can embarrass yourself further by finishing the sentence. Mentally exhausted from the the clash of conflicting emotions tearing through you in such a short time, you struggle for air.

“I should get going. Thanks for the drinks,” Arthur mumbles after you’ve calmed down and retrieves his hat from the floor, interpreting your momentary hyperventilating as having overstayed his welcome. Or maybe it’s getting too hard to resist temptation.

As you silently walk him to the door, your mind scrambles for words of goodbye. You can’t have your final conversation – you final meeting with him ending like this. Final conversation. Final meeting. _Final._

After tonight, you may very well never meet Arthur Morgan again. All of a sudden, it feels like your chest has been pierced by a thousand knives, the crushingly painful sensation demanding from you every bit of self-control and willpower to suppress. You remind yourself that you barely know this man. This outlaw. Actually, you don’t know him at all.

_Yes you do._

“Thank you for the hospitality,” Arthur mutters, half facing you, half turned away from you as his hand closes around the handle. His chin is low and close to his chest.

“You’ve done far more for me than most’ve, includin’ most of the folks in my own gang,” he continues, his voice thick. “You’ve shown me kindness even though I deserve none. I won’t forget that.”

You’re glad he’s facing away from you so he can’t see your eyes, flaming red and brimming with tears. That is about as much willpower as you have.

“You’re welcome to stay for the night.”

His hand lingers on the handle. He’s considering your proposal. He wants to say yes. You can tell.

“I eh, I think it’s – good night, Miss.”

With that, he leaves. You lean heavily against the door, sobbing loudly to the fading sound of a horse galloping away. When you can no longer hear him, you find yourself curled up on the floor, your face and hands drenched in tears. You tell yourself it’s for the best. That you are an idiot for letting an outlaw into your life, and heart. An outlaw that also happens to be very much in love with another woman. Now, that one hurts. Regardless, there is no way it could’ve worked. You lead such different lives, and you have such vastly different morals and values it would be doomed to end in heartache. Yet you long for him. Ache for him. The conversation with Arthur plays in your mind for the rest of the night, making it impossible to fall asleep as you relive every word, every glance, every tear and smile, how your skin had been set ablaze when he’d touched you. How you had shared with him something you have never shared with anyone before, not even to yourself or your journal.

Your _journal._

You remember how Arthur’s journal had made you see a different side to him, in particular the loving words about a little boy named Jack, and his momma. Then you remember how he had broken into your home to steal your sole memento of Anna and most treasured belonging. Among other things. He would’ve gotten away with it too if you hadn’t been so quick-witted. Angry, confused, conflicted; you thought you were in your right to violate him as he had violated you by breaking into your home and stealing from you. You’d wanted him. You’d acted on it. You feel ashamed, mortified, exhilarated and aroused all at once just thinking about it. You had every intent to send him to jail afterwards to never see him again. You never thought you would end up falling for him. But you have.

You feel drained, empty and torn here you lie all alone in your big empty bed, yearning for the outlaw that left your house earlier. Yearning for his warmth. His touch. His raspy yet soothing voice. In the early morning hours, as night turns to day, you cave in. Tired of fighting your heart you indulge in a fantasy where you slumber off into blissful sleep to the lulling sound of Arthur’s heartbeat after a night of making love. Slow, heartfelt and tender, or rough, quick and steamy, it would always end with you falling asleep in his arms as he strokes your hair. Eventually you fall asleep in the real world too, to the familiar and comforting sounds of animals and trickling water outside.


	2. A Visit to the Graveyard, Suffragettes and a Family Feud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It is always easy to question the judgement of others in matters of which we may be imperfectly informed. ― P. D. James_

As you exit the cottage, you’re greeted by the first rays of the rising sun, an early morning chill that makes you tuck your shawl snugly around you, and a gentle neigh to your left bringing a rare smile to your face. It had taken you quite some time, but you had finally saved up enough to buy yourself a horse with your very own, hard-earned money, thereby shortening travel times considerably.

“Good boy,” you praise the animal munching sugar cubes from your palm. The treat downed and devoured, you retrieve a brush from the saddlebag and start combing the mane, marveling at the chestnut-colored fur glistening in the sun. As an unmarried woman living alone it feels good to be able to take care of yourself. You’ve been doing pretty all right so far, - you have certainly proved all the nay-sayers wrong, of which there had been plentiful. Maybe you should join Penelope at the suffrage rally tomorrow after all.

“Easy there, boy,” you calmly sweet-talk the stallion, as Arthur Morgan had done to his mare. Carefully untangling the twigs, you take care not to hurt the beautiful animal. “Easy, Cali. Good boy.”

The mane now silk smooth and shiny, you tuck the brush away and place your forehead to the horse’s muzzle, giving it a pat on the chin. You’ve had Caliburn, or Cali as you call him, for less than a week, yet you two have already formed a precious bond. “Now don’t you worry, me and my brother are going to build you a nice stable before winter sets in,” you assure.

Circling your cottage, you squat down to pick a small, DIY bouquet of wild flowers to put on Anna’s grave. For years, you had believed yourself to be over your sister’s death but as of late, you have come to realize you never truly moved on. Your life revolves around tending to the needs of others at Dr. Mattock’s office, and visiting your family. You spend most of your evenings wrapped up in that beloved couch of yours, absorbed in one of your many books. Not that there’s anything wrong with reading, quite the contrary, however you live out your days through the eyes of fictional heroes and heroines to avoid reflecting over your own solitude. You got withdrawn after your sister’s death and it had taken you many, many months before you could smile or feel joy again, even longer before you could do so without guilt. Hate it as you may, there’s no denying you’ve kept everyone at an arm’s length all these years, careful not to let anyone too close.

That is, until Arthur Morgan had _waltzed_ into your life.

Tucking the shawl around you as another morning chill pass by, you stretch your neck and run a hand through your tresses, absentmindedly tucking them behind your ear. What it is about this outlaw that had gotten so under your skin, you are at loss for an explanation. Out of all the people in the world, out of all the men in the world, why _him_?

Satisfied with the bouquet, you tie a turquoise ribbon around the stems, Anna’s favorite color. You keep the steed at a leisurely stroll as you’re still getting used to travel by horseback, looking around as if seeing clearly again for the first time in years. The world always seems gray when visiting your sisters’ grave, memories and grief clouding your mind. Today, however, the sun seems brighter, and the bird’s songs more gleeful. ‘A life without loss is one without love’ the minister had said at Anna’s funeral. Back then, it had sounded like a taunt. But as of late, you’ve come to see a painful beauty in these words. Despite the indescribable grief following her death, you wouldn’t’ve been without her for anything in the world, and you’re grateful for every day you got to spend with her.

The chapel spire coming into view, your pocket watch serves as a cruel reminder that you are to be at the doctor’s office in less than five minutes! Lost in thoughts - again, you’d spent more time picking that bouquet than you thought. Instead of heading down to the main gate, you hitch Cali to the white-picket fence circling the churchyard and climb over the enclosure to save time, arriving at your destination in only a few short steps. Despite being in a hurry, you take the time to sit down on your knees and carefully put the flowers in a water-filled vase.

“Miss you,” you whisper to the cold, lifeless stone. “Sorry I can’t stay. See you soon.”

The graveyard is usually empty this early, which is why you prefer to schedule your visits to before work. But today you see something that catches your attention. Someone’s entire upper body has disappeared into an open grave, a concerning sight indeed as last time you’d been here, this grave had a pile of soil on top. You’re quite sure; you frequent this place often enough to remember. Wary and curious, you tiptoe to hide behind the chapel for a closer look. Does your eyes play tricks on you, or is someone really digging up Mrs. Claypole’s grave? The sweet old lady that had been a regular at Dr. Mattock’s office in the final months before she passed.

As the grave digger rise to his feet, all dirty and muddy another, much taller man approaches him. Is your eyes still playing tricks on you? Isn’t that…?

“…looks like diamonds.”

The smaller, much younger gentleman which you now recognize as Mr. Ballard’s apprentice Gwyn Hughes, hands something over to the taller one.

“This’ll do,” he grunts, flipping the item in his hand. “Now get outta here before someone sees you.”

_Well, speak of the devil…_

You had been almost positive, but hearing that unmistakable voice effectively smothers any shred of hopeful doubt you may’ve had. Once again, you have crossed paths with Arthur Morgan, this time when forcing poor Mr. Hughes into grave robbing by the looks of it. You glance at the flowers on Anna’s grave. Not even the final resting places of the deceased are sacred. You’d been right about outlaws all along. This particular one may’ve made folly out of you the last time your paths crossed, but no more. You already knew all your best efforts to reach out to him had been for naught yet it still hurts to get it so cruelly confirmed right before your eyes. Oh, why did you have to meet him again like _this_? No, this is just as well, because now any silly, schoolgirl blue-eyed romantic hope you may’ve had involving you and this man could now finally be put out of its pitiful misery. Because this, _this_ is low, even for outlaws.

“Can’t believe it’s come to this,” the novice undertaker stutters. “That-that should eh, more than clear what I owe you. Well, I’m outta here.”

Mr. Hughes’ muddy back zigzag between gravestones and into disappearance. You scurry out from your hiding spot and call out to Morgan’s back against your better judgement.

“Stealing from the living ain’t enough, eh? Gotta rob the dead too?!”

That certainly is an indignant look if you ever saw one. After shooting you an _if-eyes-could-kill_ kind of glare, Arthur glances to his sides then back at you, as if deciding whether to confront you or leave.

“That was - that was low.”

Crossing your arms, you keep your scornful gaze locked on to his, all while doing your best to ignore the rhythmic thumping against your ribs. Why must he have this effect on you? And what is that on his chest? A deputy star by the looks of it. But how? Why?

“Fella owed us money,” he growls, his tone low and menacing. “You rather I’d beaten him half to death instead?”

You roll your eyes. “Beating people half to death, or force them to rob the graves of sweet old ladies. I don’t know Arthur,” you hiss, your arms shooting up. “Both sound equally piss-poor if ya ask me.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Actually, you were. Okay it may have been a rhetorical question- you know what, never mind.”

“What you gettin’at?”

The outlaw is not one bit amused. Both hands on his gun belt, he closes the distance between you two until he’s close enough that you can reach out and touch him. Not that you’d want to touch him. Not after what you just witnessed. Why are you even thinking it?

“I- eh, you know what, I’m late. I don’t have time for this. I’m late for work, all thanks to-“

Knowing very well you only have yourself to blame for that, you go silent. Nevertheless, you halt for a second or three, a heart-wrecking sting of disillusionment course through you as you realize Arthur won’t say anything to apologize, rectify or explain himself even if you already knew he wouldn’t.

“Goodbye, _Mr._ Morgan,” you spit out as you march past him towards the front gate, making sure you shove into his elbow as you walk by him. Five determined steps later, you turn on your heels and march in the opposite direction, internally cussing.

“I- eh, my horse is, um, over there,” you mutter, cheeks flushing as you whisk past him again, looking at everything and anything that is not the outlaw you had just insulted. You slow down when you pass by Anna’s grave. Unbeknownst to you, Arthur’s eyes lingers on you, and he remains stuck in the same spot until he can no longer see you, feeling like a fool for whishing things was different. As you disappear from his view, he lowers his chin, sighing deeply before heading back to camp.

~*~

“<Y/n> you came! It’s so good to see you.”

After a twenty-minute quick-paced walk, you’re finally here! You greet Penelope by returning her enchanting and highly contagious smile, one that has inadvertently charmed many a young man. And some women, you presume. Bemusing how this amiable and good-natured woman is related to the scornful harridan that is Catherine Braithwaite. After greeting the other attendees and threading a shoulder banner over your head, you are free to admire a lovely sapphire bracelet on Penelope’s slender arm. She leans forward, throws a side-glance to make sure the others are out of hearing-range, and practically sings into your ear; “it was a gift from Beau. He had it sent over yesterday together with the loveliest letter,” her mien distant and dreamy.

“You really like him, don’t you?”

“I know it’s not an ideal situation. Far from it.” A furrow appears on her otherwise pristine forehead as she acknowledges the gravity of the situation, and the stars in her brilliant blue are promptly replaced by concern. “But Beau is so- he’s-he’s the love of my life.”

“I hope all goes well for you two,” you say earnestly, flashing her a reassuring smile. “You deserve all the happiness in the world, Penelope.”

“As do you,” the young Braithwaite touches your arm. “I hope you find someone <y/n>, like I have with my Beau. I would hate to see you end up as an old maid. You are far too kind.”

You snigger at the inadvertent pun on Miss Braithwaite’s behalf. “Only _the_ _deepest love_ will persuade me into matrimony,” you avow in an overly dramatic, theatrical tone. Quoting one of your favorite books you realize with delight how, just like the heroine, a stubborn, hasty walk through dusty streets and muddy fields has undone your hair, smudged your petticoat, and given your complexion a healthy glow.

“As it should!” the damsel laughs. “But to find your _deepest_ love you will have no choice but to go out and meet people - and talk to people.”

“I meet people. I talk to - people. I talk to people all the time. It’s part of my job.”

“You know what I mean! People that are not Dr. Mattock, one of his patients or your family.”

“Well I’m talking to you right now. Besides, there’s more to life than matrimony, even for women.”

“Not everyone is lucky enough to be in your position,” the fellow suffragette reminds. “You are blessed to have Saint Denis born parents who are wealthy enough to pay for your education – and progressive enough to be willing.”

Your cheeks flush with red as you shamefully realize just how self-absorbed you have been as of late. Or, in general really. Despite your snarky and confrontational nature, you fluster easily, an unlucky combination for you and a trait most people find endearing, and by endearing they mean amusing.

“I know, but isn’t this part of the reason why we’re here?”

“It sure is. I was so disheartened when you first said you couldn’t make it. I’m glad your schedule allowed for today’s rally after all. The more we are, the stronger our voices will be.”

You try not to pull a face. When did you ever have a schedule, other than the one you set up for Dr. Mattock, though for than, you have no one to blame but yourself.

“That’s not why,” you admit. “As of late, I simply haven’t felt like enjoying the company of others. But yesterday, something happened that-”

You are interrupted by a loud, singsong voice roaring through the meadow. The instigator, Ms. Calhoun has begun to rally up the crowd. The blonde clutches your arm.

“I can’t believe today has finally come! That we are doing this,” Penelope gaily whisper-exclaims, leaning in close to your ear to not disturb Ms. Calhoun. The thrill of anticipation has brought out a rare sparkle in her innocent baby blues, effectively putting the gems on her newly bestowed bracelet to shame. Together with the faint-blue-and-white ruffled and laced puffy dress, the blue velvet ribbon in her sun-kissed, curly hair, an immaculate complexion and rosy cheeks, she bears a striking resemblance to an adult-sized bisque doll. A kind-spirited, brave and vivacious bisque doll. You catch yourself wondering if this is how Anna would have been like had she been alive.

 “Oh, this is all so exciting! Except they might actually kill us for going through with this.”

“Please don’t remind me,” you whisper back. “Does Beau know?”

“He might. I wrote him a letter telling him I would attend today and I sent it with that man who was kind enough to deliver me Beau’s letter and present yesterday. Snuck into our property he did, and crossed half of Scarlet Meadows to bring me this bracelet and the letter from Beau. Had our guards seen him he would have been in so much trouble.”

“Delightful to know there are still those who believe so strongly in true love that they are willing to cross oceans, deserts and most fearsome of all, the heavily guarded Scarlet Meadows,” you snicker.

“Oh I’m sure Beau paid him a handsome fee,” the enamored lass giggles back, clapping her hands and cheering on Ms. Calhoun. “He’s not shy of spending his family’s fortune on me when he can.”

“Obviously. Nevertheless, I’m glad to hear someone’s been helping you two. Anyone I know?”

“Oh, I ain’t seen him before. He was quite tall and a bit – well, unkempt is the best word, I guess. And he had a deputy star on his chest. Didn’t say much, but he seemed real nice and friendly.”

“A deputy-“

“Beau! What are you doing here?!”

“I cannot let you go through with this,” the young suitor insists though it sounds more like a plea. You turn around to the sight of Penelope Braithwaite holding hands with Beau Gray – in public! And so close to the town as well. Now, the unlikely couple taking such a risk might’ve alarmed you a great deal, however Rhodes’ answer to Romeo and Juliet showing off their love so frivolously is entirely overshadowed by the tall and unkempt man behind the young Mr. Gray. With a deputy star on his chest. Just… unbelievable. This outlaw seems to keep finding himself back into your life. You wonder if fate is conspiring against you.

You sneak behind Miss Braithwaite shushing on her love’s desperate attempts at persuading her to desist from participating. The look on Arthur’s face when you catch his eye amuses you. The devilish spark igniting in your eyes conceals their disdain.

“Shoulda figured you’d be here,” he mutters. Defying his sour-faced countenance, you extend your arm to ‘formally’ greet the newly appointed deputy. He ignores your outstretched hand and returns your greeting with bemused annoyance.

“Rumor has it there is a new deputy in town.” You flash the fake lawman an enchanting smile as you keep your outstretched hand directed at him. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Sir. My name is <y/n>,” you chirp with the sweetest tone you can muster.

Clearly anything but amused, he lifts his head just enough for you to catch glimpse of the surly glare under the brim of his hat, a skill of which he is most proficient. “Arthur Callahan,” he grumbles, finally placing his hand in yours. His palm is warm and callous, and feels both rough and good against your skin. His hand lingers in yours. Or, the other way around most likely. He is the first to drop his arm.

“Callahan, eh? Interesting family name.”

There is no reply. The warmth from Arthur’s hand lingers in your palm. Your fingers curl inwards.

“Heard there was maintenance work at the churchyard yesterday morning.” You lean in close to the outlaw, lowering your tone. “At the same time we ran into each other. What a strange coincidence.”

Still no reply.

“I also heard Gary and Marty got knocked out by this big, mean fellar when they tried to access the property. You know anything about that? You know, as the new deputy and all.”

A deep, disgruntled sigh could be heard, another skill of which he is highly accomplished.

Mr. Gray cuts your snarky commentary short, begging Arthur to help him, of which the pretend-deputy gives a sardonic reply. Penelope has more luck with the outlaw-slash-lawman, suggesting he drive the wagon taking you into town, which he for some reason agrees to without much persuasion. Gray’s mute stupor is taken as assent and Penelope wastes no time calling for Ms. Calhoun. Ten seconds later it is settled. Mr. Morgan is to join the rally by driving the banner-covered buckboard.

“Normally I like to drive myself but today, I feel like a man joining us sends the right message,” the veteran suffragette gushes.

You have yet to fully process what is going on. For some reason, Ms. Calhoun seems to have taken a liking to Mr. Morgan and the latter seems to enjoy the experience. No, surely you must be imagining things. “All right ladies,” the rabble-rouser shouts from atop the carriage as Arthur finds his place in the driver’s seat. “We know our song is a good one, and our cause is a pure one. Let liberty reign.”

As many of you that can fit climb onboard, while the more athletic ones run next to or behind the rally wagon. You’re glad that is not you as you don’t think your ankles could’ve survived another speed-walk. You find a spot next to Penelope – and right behind Arthur.

Singing and cheering your way through the streets of Rhodes this early Sunday afternoon is a surreal experience. Because of the thrill and trepidation as your progressive voices are heard in this fogyish town yes, most certainly. You even manage to outyell the poor fella still looking for his friend Gavin. But also because of the driver, dutifully but vaguely answering Ms. Calhoun’s questions, and visibly tensing up when you pass by the sheriff’s office. At Main Street, the mob of angry faces makes you sing even louder, and Ms. Calhoun to shout even higher. Together you feel strong. Hate it as you may, there’s no denying it feels safer with Arthur here. It feels good to have him close again.

“Mr. Morgan, I give you the male of the species.”

“That’s a pretty dumb specimen, I grant it.”

An impromptu snort escapes you, ensuing a momentary halt to your singing – and a side-glance from your suffragette-in-crime. Unbeknownst to you, she takes note of the stars in your eyes and your coy smile aimed at no one in particular. The sweet tingles in your stomach grow into endearment when at your destination, the Bank of Rhodes Mr. Morgan reaches out his hand to assist the elderly Ms. Calhoun, only to be left ignored. You find the situation – and Arthur most endearing and you find yourself fighting an impetuous urge to give him a hug. 

You are certainly not averse to a change of heart, admitting to have been wrong or too quick to judge. Your opinion, good or bad, once lost is not lost forever. However, did it really take this little for your heart to win over your good sense, and for resentment to turn into affection – again? You ignore the growing butterflies at the pit of your belly, or at the very least try to. It would never work between you. Besides, you need to focus on the cause.

Beau Gray, who has been wisely tailing the procession at a distance, catches up, eyes never leaving Penelope. Oh, you two so hopeless in love, please be discreet. You find a place next to the latter half of the hopelessly in love and join in the cheer while ignoring the foreseeable protests, mockery and scorns from the locals, men mostly but disheartenedly some women as well. Two loonies in particular catch your eye; a cloud of menace surrounds them as they elbow their way through the crowd and up to young Gray. You recognize them as members of the Gray family but you aren’t sure of their relation to Beau.

Arthur and Penelope seem to be thinking the same as you, judging by his clenched jaw and her wide eyes. “Do something,” she pleads. With a _‘stay here’_ gesture, he heads over to where the two mean Grays are looming over the timid and much shorter Gray. You are too far away and the crowd is much too loud for you to eavesdrop but the two tallest Grays does not seem to appreciate Arthur’s meddling. Shortly thereafter, they all disappear behind the building at Mr. Morgan’s command. You give Penelope a pat and excuse yourself. Circling the corner, there’s no sight of either of them. You hear a thump, then another, and a muffled groan followed by something heavy hitting the ground. Against your better judgement, you circle yet another corner and nearly trip over the two Grays lying lifeless on the ground, a gawping Beau and a wheezing Arthur, still clenching his fists.

“You need to leave.”

Still in a bit of shock, it takes the third Gray a few seconds to respond, and it’s not until Arthur sends him one of his trademark glares that he finally moves. “Okay, okay, wait, your money, I have-.”

“Just go. Now.”

“Thanks, Arthur, I - eh, thanks.”

With that, Mr. Gray, the sentient one that is, quickly rides off on his Kentucky Saddler, leaving you alone with the menacing outlaw that has just beaten two large men unconscious.

“You shouldn’t be here,” the very same outlaw growls through gritted teeth. The chide is directed at you even though his eyes are focused elsewhere.

“I-I ain’t seen nothing.” Turning your heads towards the squeaky sound, you catch a glimpse of a petrified Mr. Hughes before he scurries inside the building behind him. It appears he was sanding the lid of a coffin when Arthur and the Grays interrupted him. Working on a Sunday he is. Guess there’s no rest for the wicked - or apprentices.

“Neither should you,” you respond, reverting your attention to Arthur. “C’mon, let’s go before they come through. Or someone else sees you.” You head over to the small plaza by the train station past the taxi coach, the one with the large iron bell, where you stop to talk. Thanks to the uproar outside the depository where Ms. Calhoun is still holding her speech, the area is devoid of people.

“I had no choice,” he cries out, his outburst accompanied by frantic hand movements. “They started it, askin’bout miss Braithwaite, and the idiot-“

Your hands clenching your sides, you draw a deep breath. Beau is safe. Penelope is safe. The rally had gone by relatively peacefully and Ms. Calhoun had been allowed to continue her speech. All thanks to Arthur. You had tried to think of him as this callous and highly dangerous outlaw to be avoided at all cost - and effectively failed. You want to not like him. But he sure is making it hard. Impossibly hard.

“I know. Thank you, Arthur. For helping them. For helping _us_. And for keeping us safe.”

He doesn’t seem to hear you. A frown appears on his forehead, creased and weathered after years and years of playing cat-and-mouse with the law in combination with many a night under the open sky, as the crowd start dissipating.

“Arthur,” you try again. “I just want to say; I greatly appreciate your he-“

“You should go home. Let me take you. I eh, just want to make sure you get home safe,” he elucidates upon seeing the look in your eyes. “Lots of angry fellas around town today.”

“Pfft, _today?!_ When are there not?”

Arthur’s glare cuts your witticism short. You reckon he’s had enough of your smartass commentary for one day.

“Okay,” you agree, offering him an olive branch. A real one this time. Arthur reaches out his arm and for a split second, you wonder if he’s going to pick you up or pull you close, relief and disappointment surging through you as his arm merely hovers over your back, with resolute steering you in the direction of the white-picket fence behind the butcher.

“How do you know that’s where I- _oh_.”

Yep, there’s no other place in town you’d rather hitch your horse. Seems this coarse outlaw is a better judge of character than you’d thought. Or maybe just your character? Not that you had thought anything in particular on the subject. Not consciously at least. Why wouldn’t he be a good judge of character? The stallion greets you with that soft but joyful neigh reserved only for you, saving you from the discomfort of having to further reflect on your own prejudice. You take the bridles in your hand and pat the animal on its neck. Arthur’s mare promptly arrives at his signal, and he greets her with that deep, lulling tone of his that makes you go all warm and tingly.

“Beautiful horse you got yerself. What’s his name?”

“Cali. What’s yours?”

“Boadicea.”

“After the Keltic warrior? I like it.” You cook a smile. This man keeps surprising you.

“She’s been my faithful companion for years now,” he divulges. There’s only a hint of strain to his voice as he effortlessly climbs into the saddle. “Best horse I’ve ever had.”

With a bit of struggle you mount your own horse. Though not quite as slick as the man next to you, you’re getting the hang on it. Is that a snicker? _He better not._ You feign offended by puckering the corners of your lips into a dissatisfied pout and shooting him a squinting glare, though not without a glimmer of jest. The man who had definitely not been chuckling at your graceless ascend diverts his face half-sideways to conceal that smug half-grin of his, focusing intently on placing his feet in the stirrups. His foot slips, making him mutter what sounds like a mild cuss.

“You need some help with that?” you grin, pointing at the stirrup with your foot.

“Shut yer mouth,” he growls, the familiar, playful tug at the corner of his mouth still lingering.

“At least you can wear trousers,” you argue as Arthur clicks his tongue to get the horses moving. You pull the bridles to steer Cali onto the road circling the churchyard, grateful that Arthur has Boadicea at a leisurely stroll. “Try running, jumping, riding and climbing with skirts and petticoats.

“Actually I have,” he discloses. “More than I care to admit.”

“Really, now? _That_ is a story I need to hear.”

“No you don’t,” he says adamantly but still goes on to elaborate. “Me and this fellar, Hosea actually, we were scammin’ some rich, entitled prick. Ah, you don’t wanna hear this.”

“Um, yes. I most certainly do.”

“Another time.”

“Is that a promise?” You had meant to sound cheeky, but your tone held too much hope for it to be labelled as the casual suave you had been aiming for.

“Maybe…”

You ride in silence for a few minutes. It’s not until you see Kamassa River in the distance that Arthur speaks, digressing the topic of conversation. “You’ve been friends with Miss Braithwaite for long?”

“I’ve known her since I was young, but not that well as she’s a few years younger than me. My father used to work for her uncle and I would sometimes look after her, like I looked after- as of late, my acquaintance with Miss Braithwaite has been rekindled thanks to the women’s suffrage movement.”

You pause, thinking that if Penelope’s merely an acquaintance, whom could you then call friends? “She is a good friend, I suppose.”

“Your pa used to work for’em Braithwaites?”

“Yeah, as the head gardener. Been a few years since he quit to do business deals in St. Denis. I’m glad, honestly. In this town, you’re either a Braithwaite, a Gray, or you end up selling your soul to one of them one way or another. They’re each other’s archnemesis’s, and both are bad news overall. Penelope and Beau are the only decent members of each family.”

“Ha, I guessed that. You know why’em Grays'n Braithwaites hate each other?”

“Not really. Don’t care about it much either. All I know is that this town’s been caught in a crossfire between the two families for years, decades even. There’s rumors about gold that went missing on both sides, but I-”

That word, and its alluring promise of wealth and riches, makes his shoulders go rigid and there’s a minute twitch to his head. Subtle, yet you saw. You wonder if there might’ve been an ulterior motive to a seemingly innocuous question. What had started out as a casual conversation, now feels like nosey prying.

“You were sayin’?”

“Look Arthur, I have no intention of providing you with intel for your next robbery or whatever it is that you’re planning, neither by accident nor by intent.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to- I wasn’t, or maybe a little. Let’s just forgetbout’em.”

You lean forward to give Cali a pat. There had been more edge to your tone than you’d intended. It’d felt so good with that good vibe between you returning, a feeling you want to hold on to. “You want my advice, leave’em be,” you insist, not caring whether he wants the advice or not. “Nothing good ever comes out of meddling with either the Braithwaites or the Grays. Trust me on this. And they ain’t as stupid as they may seem either.”

You ride in silence for a while, listening to the sounds of nature. Your eyes glide over the muddy yet serene river, and the distant wetlands at the other side of the riverbank. Arthur’s the one to speak, digressing again.

“For what it’s worth, I didn’t like that grave robbin’ one bit. It felt wrong. When he told me we was going to the church, I thought he was gonna steal from the collection box.”

You raise a brow and try not to glare.

“Churches been takin’ more than what they need off poor folks since time began,” he maintains.

“Since time began, eh? Okay, fine. You ain’t wrong.”

“Got hungry folks to feed too you know, women and children. We’ve had a rough couple of months and it’s my job to collect the money folk owe us whether I like it or not, and mostly I don’t.”

A drawing of a young boy no more than four flashes before you. As in any society, we all have our part to play, even outlaws. This is the hand he’s been dealt. There is a genuine wish from your end to see his side of things. To understand where he’s coming from and how his past and present has and still is shaping him into the man he is or, sees himself as, as well as a captivating curiosity as to what kind of man he truly is deep down, or the man he could’ve been had things gone differently.

“I understand. I do. And for what it’s worth – a lot. It’s worth a lot.” You don’t even take notice of your hand clutching your pendant. Arthur however, does. “I know I already said it, but thank you again for helping us. I know you don’t care much for voting rights or politics, but I nevertheless greatly appreciate your support. And thank you for helping Penelope and Beau. They’re amongst the kindest people I know.”

“Sure.”

Arthur Morgan, certainly not the man of long, eloquent sentences. A good thing, you muse. You don’t care for the kinds of people who does an awful lot of talking but have very little to actually say. Thankfully, Arthur is quite the opposite of that, rather expressing his thoughts in writing.

“I don’t know why, but suddenly I’m feelin’all hot on voting rights,” he muses, granted there is a hint of humor to his voice. You let out a snicker, and glance over at the virgin activist who returns your beam with that cheeky, half-cooked grin of his that you find most enticing, making your cheeks glow.

“Really? You enjoyed rallying with us that much?”

“To my surprise, I did. I don’t know much’bout civilized society, good causes or politics. Never cared much’bout it either, other than to steer clear of it,” he admits. “But I did enjoy ridin’ with you today.” He holds your gaze, an expression on his face you can’t quite place. “The world sure’s changing fast. But for once, I didn’t hate it.”

“Well I be damned,” a gaily chortle promptly escapes your lips. “Arthur Morgan admits that maybe not all of modern society is a curse.”

You’re grateful the tension has faded. It’s an odd one, your friendship with this outlaw, but a friendship it is nonetheless. A railroad bridge comes into view; the sight makes your chest feel heavy. You are close to home. Do you dare to invite him in again? It didn’t exactly end well last time. Surely, he’d say no and you would be left alone with your shattered, foolish heart, just like last time. However, even in the off chance he were to say yes, would it be a good idea? 

“Help, someone please help.”

As soon as you enter the forest, pleading cries reach your ears. Not before long, a man limps out from behind the trees, clutching onto his leg.

“I was bitten by a snake. Help me, please.”

He collapses onto a clearing on the forest floor, only a few feet away. Without thinking, you immediately jump down from your horse, quickly followed by Arthur.

“Please, please do something. I don’t what to die!”

“Okay, okay hold on,” Arthur assures. “You got yerself a nurse here, mister. It’ll be allrite.”

You waste no time crouching down next to the injured man, squinting at the blood-smeared skin in-between the ripped fabric of his jeans. “Is the bite recent, mister? The leg isn’t as swollen as I’d-”

You immediately go quiet. Something’s amiss. You more sense it than know for sure, but you‘ve come to realize, it’s too quiet all of a sudden.

“Arthur?”

There is no reply. Numbing, utter dread course through you, a rhythmic throbbing in your ears being the only sounds you hear - the result of your heart frantically pumping blood to your brain.

_You’ve been set up._

You don’t want to look up as you just _know_ , it’s going to be bad, but there’s also that part of you which insists on facing your fears head on. You slowly lift your head. In this case, facing your fears head on means staring into the deadly end of a double-barrel shotgun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been thinking a lot about how to progress the story, and this is what made most sense to me. A bit confrontational this one but the series is not called 'Against All Odds' for nothing. Thank you everyone for your comments and kind words.


	3. Captured

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the will of others. My courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate me.” – Jane Austen_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thank you all from the bottom of my heart for your support and kind words. Your beautiful comments has me grinning for hours.

Someone is calling out your name from far, far away. Their voice is muffled, as if behind a hundred sheets of cotton. Or underwater. You can’t be underwater; you can breathe just fine. But where are you? And whom is calling for you?

You try to move. You fail. You try to open our eyes, but they are like glued shut. Panic spread through you as for a brief moment, you fear they just might be. Immobile and unable to speak and see you are but a prisoner of your own dark paranoia hell with no idea where you are, how you got here or who brought you here, your only contact with the outside world being that familiar voice calling for you again and again, and by doing so is gradually pulling you out of your slumber.

Arthur?

It is he. You hear it clearly now. He must be close. You try opening your eyes again, but the strain and light are like needles to your eyeballs, making you squirm in pain. You try to reach out to him, twitching your arms and lurching your shoulders. It’s futile. Something stingy and fibrous is cutting into your writs. Its implication makes your heart beat faster, which in turn increases the speed at which blood, with its essential nutrients, courses through your veins, giving your muddled brain a much-needed boost of adrenaline and oxygen. You blink your eyes open.

“Jesus, <y/n>. Finally!”

“Urgh.” Resisting the urge to slide back into darkness you try to speak but your hazy, clouded mind is only capable of incomprehensible grunts.

“Hey, you all right? Talk to me.”

You hear his voice just fine, but in your struggle to stay awake and aware you fail to register his words. Light sensitive eyes all but barely register the unfamiliar and uncanny surroundings in-between rapid blinks. Planks of wood. Bricks. So many bricks. Small, glowing orbs. Muffled voices behind closed doors on either side of the pile of bricks your groggy mind at last recognizes as a fireplace, and the orbs as lit candles. What is this place? What happened? How long have you been out? And what is that smell? It reeks of liquor, sweat, mold, rotting wood, a faint scent of metal you think, and the unmistakable, putrid stench of decaying flesh, as if something has died in here and been left to rot - on at least four different occasions.

The repulsive aromas penetrating your consciousness is a telltale sign of your senses returning. A sudden flash of remembrance. Two adjacent black holes, surrounded by metal. It scares you. Why? You process the memory in conjunction with the following dread. The _double-barrel_ shotgun! A burst of adrenaline has your heart fervently pumping blood to your brain, rousing you awake.

“I’m here,” you cry-mumble, still blinking your blurred vision into focus.

“You okay? Been tryin’a get through to ya for a while.”

Your head hurt. You can feel it clearly now, above the temple. It must be where they struck when they knocked you unconscious. You’re sitting on a chair with your arms tied up behind you. Arthur has been met with the same fate. His hallmark black hat is missing, giving you a clear view of the concern in his eyes, the crinkle between his eyebrows and the red-colored streak across his temple. Behind him is a square gap in the wall with bunk beds on either side with blankets so wrinkled and dirty you’re certain they’ve yet to make their first rendezvous with a water-and-soap filled basin.

“The snake bite. I should have known,” you growl, your voice numbly. “He didn’t behave- too much blood. Leg wasn’t - swollen enough- I realized too late.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself. I fell for it too,” your fellow captive mutters. “Next thing I know, they pulled their guns on us, too many of’em for me to tak’em out. Not without risk of you bein’ hurt.”

As Arthur speaks, you peer outside the glassless window behind him. The sky has a red-orange tint to it and you can tell from the shadows being cast that the sun is low. You see branches, leaves and the front part of what might be a wagon. No landmark or anything to pinpoint a location.

“How long have we been out?”

“I dunno, couple of hours. Maybe less. Came through a while ago and been tryin’a wake you up ever since. Got me worried there for a second.”

“You know who?”

“No. Ain’t seen’em before. But they ain’t Lemoyne Raiders or Braithwaites. Maybe-”

You were about to ask how he could be so sure when the sound of a door slamming shut has you let out a choked gasp.

“Hey, is all right. I won’t let’em hurt ya.”

Voices emerge from the other side of the wall, but it proves impossible to make out the words. You hold Arthur’s gaze wanting, but failing to believe his words. Oh, you believe he’s sincere all right, you only wish he wouldn’t make such a promise when in a situation neither of you can control.

“You’re not exactly in a position to make any promises. Or to protect me.”

“They wouldn’t dare,” he reassures, cooking an assertive grin. “They as much lay their filthy hands on you, they gonna be _real_ sorry.” There is an edge to his tone that leaves no doubt as to the sincerity of his wows, nor of the anger at the mere thought of something happening to you. Conversely, the smug, self-assured smirk and poised conduct are giveaways of how blasé he is about the possible dangers of the current situation.

“This might be just another day for you, but _I_ am not used to this. I’m scared, Arthur.” There is a hint of a tremor to your voice. His grin fades, his countenance shifting from boastful to somber.

“I’m sorry for gettin’ you in this mess,” he says gravely, shifting his gaze to the floor. His voice loses some of its edge and goes softer, thicker. “Sorry for draggin’ you into this sorry excuse of life I lead. I ain’t done much good. Don’t have much to be proud of. Don’t have anythin’ really. But I promise you, I’ll do everything I can to keep you safe. To keep you alive. Even if it’s the last thing I do in this life.”

That is quite the promise. Loss for words, your eyes do the talking.

_Thank you._

You’ve been put at ease by the calm determination in his voice, and for a moment it truly feels like everything is going to be all right. You want to tell him how much he means to you. How you think about him all the time. How there is nothing you wish for more than to fall asleep in his arms every night for the rest of your life. You blink, feeling your eyes burn. You swallow. Hard. Forcing away the growing thickness in your throat. You know it’s futile to think like this. You know it can never be. But you want him to know in case- _no!_

“Let’s hope it won’t come to that,” you respond, your voice thick. You can’t bring yourself to speak the words in your heart. Perhaps it is pride that's stopping you. Or more likely, a hunch that if you start to open up, your voice will crack and you will break down into sobs.

It is now dead quiet on the other side. “Why don’t they come in?” you whisper. “They must’ve heard us talking by now.”

“Eating, drinking, playing poker. Makin’ us sweat. I don’t know. But they’ll be here all rite.”

You’d rather not wait for that. You look around the tiny room in which you’re currently confined, in search of means to escape. A total of three windows where one is without glass, a bottle here and there, an old can with an open lid…

“You see anything we can use to cut through the rope? Maybe if we break one of the window-”

There is no reply. Instead, Arthur lowers his head, hiding the smirk on his face. His shoulders are shaking, faintly yet perceptibly. For what conceivable reason he is silently laughing, you are at loss.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothin’.”

The grin grows wider. It’s obviously something. “Did I say something funny?” He shakes his head, leaving you clueless as to what could have prompted this caprice. At the corners of his eyes are a myriad of crinkles. You see why they call them crow’s feet.

“No, seriously Arthur. What could possibly be funny about this?”

“Oh, I’m just thinkin’bout the last time I was tied up like this.”

Last time… _oh._

“You was there too.”

Your eye roll gives you an impressive panorama view of the ceiling. “Haha _ha_ , very funny.”

“ _I_ think it is.”

You’re pretty sure you just saw the inside your skull. “Of course you do.” No longer trying to hide his amusement, his entire upper body is shaking as if trying his hardest to not burst into laughter. Your disgruntled scowl only serves to make his grin bigger.

“I can’t believe you- seriously Arthur, how can you - were you not there? We were held up at gun point, knocked out and we are now tied up with no means to escape in case you haven’t noticed.”

A loud snort escapes him. He looks at you with crescent-shaped eyes. “That’s how I met you. _Princess._ ”

“I got a nickname now? That’s cute. Real cute, Arthur. Glad one of us is having fun.”

“Sure, you didn’t knock me out. Not in the same way they did anyway.”

“YOU-“ Notwithstanding the precarious situation, your face goes red-hot. You are at a complete loss for a slick counter or a clever nickname. “Am I going to hear about this for the rest of my life? Is this-”

The implications of what you just said has the words freeze in your throat. Your fellow prisoner doesn’t seem to have taken notice. If he has, he is not showing it as he is busy chuckling at his own jokes on your expense. Or he is merely trying to lighten the mood. You have to admit, albeit reluctantly, that it is working. A loud snort escapes you, and you soon enough find yourself smiling and shaking your head at the absurdity. Echoing Arthur’s chortles, you lock your gaze with his. A jolt flares through your chest as you were struck by a lightning bolt.

The sound of a door slam shut effectively puts a stop to your mutual tittering. Another door opens. _Your_ door. Arthur’s face goes from amused to serious in an instant, as do yours. You hear his voice, so far away all of a sudden, telling you to stay calm. Your mouth feels dry. A lanky and disheveled man with thick, bushy eyebrows framing a pair of close-set, beady eyes and a scar across his face enters through the doorway, followed by two men, each holding a shotgun. The foremost, the one with the scar, positions himself right in front of you, bucking his belt after a visit to the outhouse. Or something. You’d rather not think about it. The other two take their position behind him. They are both a head shorter, but no less intimidating.

“S’mthing funny?” he smirks, adjusting his pants.

Neither of you respond save for piercing stares. You have a vague memory of seeing him at or near Rhodes Parlor House. The type you usually avoid at all cost. The _I’d-rather-take-a-thirty-minute-detour-than-having-to-walk-past-you_ kind of avoidance.

“I sincerely hope you find our humble abode _satisfactory_.”

“What you want from us?” the man to your left grumbles, sending daggers at your captors.

The man to the left of Scarface, whom you dub Enforcer One, swipes the dull end of his shotgun across Arthur’s jaw. You were unprepared for it, otherwise you would have looked away. The outlaw glares at the assailant in a silent promise of retaliation. A red splotch has appeared at the corner of his mouth, but his mien shows no sign of trauma. It’s as if nothing has happened to him at all.

Scarface leans in to his face. “From you Mr. Morgan, not a damn thing.” For a fraction of a second, Arthur’s brows scoot up. Then the crease between them returns. “That’s right, we know. You ain’t no _deputy_ Callahan but Arthur Morgan, Dutch van der Linde’s right-hand man.”

“All right, fine. You got me, now let her go!”

“Actually, she’s the one we want, not you Mr. Morgan.”

_What?_

Scarface slowly turns his head; his rat eyes reach you before the rest of his face. “You’re the one we want, miss. He’s nobody. Just a pitiful outlaw scum.”

“Don’t you talk about him like that!” you sneer, followed by an instant blow to the cheek. Enforcer Two did not go easier on you because of your sex. You hide your face, refusing to let them see it twisted in pain. You hear Arthur shout. Fiercely, angrily, with quivers of unease. When you look up again, your face is blank.

“If you boys are done with the mandatory beating, maybe you can enlighten me as to what you want from me,” you say in the calmest voice you can muster under the circumstances, feeling smug at the sight of Scarface’s brows morphing into one bushy caterpillar-like unibrow. His mouth goes grim, and you embrace yourself for the penalty of not holding your tongue. The penalty however, is given not to you but to Arthur. The first strike is served in the form of a shotgun stock straight to his stomach. The assaulter raises his weapon, his gaze locked onto the beaten outlaw. You turn away before the second strike, but the mere sound of impact immediately followed by guttural, wheezing coughs and growls has waves of regret coursing through you, making you nauseous. It’s not until later you realize, that the shrieking sound you heard had been your own voice. It takes you a few seconds before you can bring yourself to look. The man you’ve come to hold so dear is squeezing his eyes shut and gritting his teeth, his head hunched over. Words of apology get stuck in your throat. Your sore throat can only muster a cry of remorse. Scarface is looking down at you with a triumphant glower, daring you to provoke him again. Your heart bursting with loathe, you clench your mouth shut, silently hollering out your aversion and abhor at him in the form of a fiery glare.

A menacing purr escapes his lips, like that of a cougar feasting on a buck. “A map is what we want,” he grins, a wolflike leer spreading across his gnarled face. His small, evil eyes radiate greed. “A map in Mrs. Braithwaite’s chamber showing where they hid that gold they stole from them Grays.”

“A map?” They seriously don’t believe this do they? Too scared they’ll make Arthur suffer again, you don’t dare to protest or reason. “I-I don’t know anything about a map, mister.”

“Map’s real! And that wench has it. Find it, bring it to us, or Mr. Morgan dies. You have until sunrise tomorrow.”

To make his point clear, he takes out his revolver and aims it at Arthur’s head. Instant dread has you feel numb, and you can’t stop gawking at the man beside you, glassy-eyed and with red-tinted saliva seeping from his mouth. Behind him, a web of twigs, branches and leaves against a darkening, blue sky as day is slowly turning to night. What had earlier been casting long shadows are now shadows themselves.

“W-why are you sending me?”

“’Cause Mr. Morgan here is known to shoot his way through any’n every problem. I send him and he’d stand out like blue cock on a pig.”

_Oddly specific but okay. Or, not._

“I need this done peacefully. Without unnecessary attention,” the scarred man with the beady eyes continues. “The Braithwaites know and trust you.”

It’s not until now you realize that ever since entering the room, the three men’s been huddling around _you_ and not the outlaw next to you.

“You expect me to just show up at their house after all these years and they just let me inside?”

“Not my problem,” he scoffs, displaying an incomplete set of discolored, chopped teeth. Enforcer Two circles you and start severing at the rope holding your wrists together. “You’ll find a way. If not, Morgan here’s a dead man.”

You want to spit at his face. If not for the fact that it’s the man beside you who would pay the consequence, you just might have. Your attention shifts between the shaft looming at Arthur’s head and the man himself, now all but recovered from the fierce strikes to his stomach and face or more precisely, it looks that way but you are certain he is still in searing pain. Brows knitted and jaw clenched, his sight is glued to the men looming over you, a deadly threat in his eyes. _Just you dare…_

“I’ll do it.”

Four pairs of eyes turn to you. Of them, you only care about one. The ones going from fuming rage to baffled concern as their owner speaks your name, brows twitching and lips parting. As soon as you’re cut free, you jolt up. Not the best idea. Black dots dance before you and you have to steady yourself on the fireplace. You register nothing but Arthur’s voice.

“Don’t listen to’em. Forget ‘bout me! Go straight to the law. Leave town. Go anywhere but the Braithwaites, you hear. Don’t giv’em scumbags what they want.”

The bricks are sticky. You don’t want to know why.

“I mean it,” Arthur yells, the furrow between his brows deepening with every word. “Don’t come back’ere, ya hear? I ain’t worth it.”

For the first time since you met him, there is fear in his voice. You straighten, taking on a blank guise as you lock eyes with Scarface. “Until sunrise,” you affirm, wiping your palms against your clothes. Your voice is steady and your tone hoarse and lower than usual. “I got it. Don’t you dare hurt him.”

A haughty chortle is his only response. You feel a tug at your arm, and before you can turn your head to look at the source of the pull, you are being dragged out of the rundown, foul-smelling prison and away from Arthur’s fierce shouting.

“Don’t! Dammit, <y/n> listen to me! Don’t!”


	4. Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sometimes we are tested. Not to show our weaknesses, but to discover our strengths. -Unknown_

You are pushed outside with such force you’re left staggering across the porch, feet crossing and arms waving in a in a clumsy and forfeit attempt at recovering balance before plunging headfirst to the ground where you land flat on your stomach to the sound of a lock clicking into place behind you. You spin around twice, darting left and right. The only measly signs of human life besides the old shack is a wagon, some barrels and firewood strewn about here and there. There is nothing else but forest and a darkening sky.

“But I-I don’t even know where I am,” you cry out, your voice hardly steady as budding anxiety has you gasping for air. There is no response. You don’t dare risk provoking the men inside so you totter up to a nearby edge, hope fading as you see nothing but endless woodland. No silhouette of human-made structures, no lights, no smoke, no sign of your horses, or any horse for that matter. Your hand shoots up to your sternum, but the pendant you had expected to find is not there. Flat palm to your chest darting left and right, up and down, patting, searching, all in vain. The locket! It’s gone. You sink to the ground and dip your head to your knees. The pounding in your chest spreads to your temples, where it manifests as pulsating throbs. Your mouth is as dry as the streets of Rhodes, and it’s getting hard to breathe. Dusk is settling fast. By dawn, Arthur will be dead unless… _No!_

Deep inhales, slow exhales. Again. _Steady._ There.

_You can’t stay here._

You crawl along the edge, all while scanning the horizon for something, anything. Is that - _light!_ Far, far away but there it is. Lots of light, more and more visible in the soaring gloom of the dying day. Enough for a settlement. A town even. Is it Rhodes? It _has_ to be.

You spot a small ledge directly underneath from where you are. The hillside doesn’t look that steep, nor is it too far down to the ground below. Though when stressed and in dim light, such assessments are not to be trusted. You make yourself as small as you can as you scurry down the slope. Almost there you lose your footing and slide down onto the ledge. Just a couple of feet, but oh lord did you feel it. Your chest still in ache from the sudden burst of panic, the accompanying dread as you realize the hillside is both higher and steeper than you had initially thought quickly intensifies by a hundredfold. You shoot a glance behind you. There is no way you are climbing up. Not in your state. With foreboding dismay, you come to accept that the only way forward is downward. With your back against the rocky surface you try to slide down but alas, it’s too steep! Sheer panic has you claw at the surface in a frantic attempt at grabbing a hold of something, anything, but there is nothing but smooth rock sliding away from under your clasping hands. You instinctively wrap your arms around your head as you plunge down the hillside, eventually coming to rest on a patch of gravel.

You lie dazed on the ground, mind too muddled to move. You wonder if the shrieking sound in your ears is just in your head, or if you had scared off a flock of birds. Or maybe it’s just bats. You flip over to your stomach and try to hoist yourself up, but end up collapsing onto your back again. The inside of your hands are burning with a searing ache. Every attempt at rising ends with you rolling around on the rocky ground, further scraping up your already battered limbs. You lie on your back, defeated, your vision going hazy as you stare emptily into the darkening sky above a cobweb of intertwining branches, listening to the whizzing chirrs of cicadas and the occasional _hoot-hoot_ from a nearby owl.

A star.

Then another one.

Maybe it’s grasshoppers. Aren’t cicadas mostly active during the hottest hours of the day?

You close your eyes.

When you open them again, you see the Milky Way. You had only been blinking. You are dead sure; _you had only been blinking_. But the misty, white trail across the sky tells you otherwise. You try to move, or you think about trying to move, but your eyes go heavy again.

Something moist and soft brush over your head, stirring you awake - for real this time. You open your eyes, not to a myriad of stars, but to a looming shadow. Its warm breath wisp over your face, sending you into instant panic and scurrying on all four away from the menacing shape while crying out shrill, animalistic sounds. The shape draws near, effortlessly keeping up with your desperate, pitiful attempts at escape. In your confused haze, familiar sounds reach your ears; two-three consecutive snorts, a huff, and a- whinny?

Cali? No, definitely not.

Boadicea _?!_

Your eyes slowly but surely shift to night vision mode thanks to the moon providing you with some much-needed illumination. The unmistakable silhouette of a horse appears before you. It is indeed Arthur’s mare. Coming down from your panicky high you realize she must’ have followed him.

“You’re a clever one, aren’t cha girl?” But what about…?

“Cali!”

There is no sign of the stallion anywhere. You scream again, or try to, but your voice is hoarse and doesn’t carry long. He is terribly skittish that boy. The men who took you must have scared him off whereupon he trotted straight to your home where he is now waiting. Right? You gracelessly hoist yourself up to an aria of whimpers and groans through gritted teeth. Everything hurts and you feel like a used doormat. You stand upright on wobbly legs, by instinct placing your hands on your knees. Instant pain flares through your arms, and you all but barely avoid a second encounter with the ground. Squeals and cries turns to sniffles and whimpers. You look down at your aching hands, embracing for an unpleasant sight. Even in the dim light from the crescent moon you can clearly see a red ring around your wrists where the rope had been gnawing into your skin and scattered red stains on you blouse. Blood, from when you had intuitively embraced for impact. Your palms; burning, throbbing and scraped up to a flaring red, a sure sign that even the slightest touch will result in searing pain. You curl your arms against your chest, trembling and whimpering.

You don’t know for how long you had been drifting in and out of consciousness. Your pocket watch is missing. That too, stolen. Your limbs are numb and it feels like you’ve been sleeping on a mattress of ice. You stretch, - ouch! – or, try to. A dull, sciatic ache has settled in your lower back, effectively serving as the epicenter of painful stings flaring through you with every move. You are going to end up with more black spots than a leopard by tomorrow. Provided you make it till morning…

“I need your help, girl. Arthur needs - your help. Our help.” Keep your spirit up! Set goals, both short-term and long-term. Getting your bearings sounds like a good start.

“Let’s find a way out of here, shall we?”

What had up until now been a blouse is now serving its use as makeshift bandage for your bruised hands. With a jagged rock you cut off slices of fabric so you can dress the other hand too. You grab the bridles and lead the mare through the forest. Branches swipe incessantly against your face, arms and legs, and with every step your skirt gets entangled into a stick or a twig, yet not before long there is a clearing and a road ahead. Your heart lurch with excite. A signpost! Spirit high you bolt, or limp up to the intersection, followed by the mare who let out a hasty neigh at the sudden change of pace from your end. An arrow-shaped sign with _Rhodes_ written in bold, black letters trigger a wave of indescribable sweet relief, and you nearly burst into tears. Behind you is the way to Emerald and the road straight ahead leads to van Horn and to Lagras. Ahead and to your left is the remains of a settlement you suspect might be the ghost town of Pleasance. You’re not nearly as far out in the wilds as you had initially feared. Twenty minutes at full gallop on the road to the right, and you should be close to home. Battered and with earlier loss of consciousness you are in no condition to ride but you cannot afford being mindful of your own physical or mental state right now.

“Come on, Boadicea. Let’s go.”

Every muscle and bone scream in protest as you climb into the saddle using the signpost as support, and your numerous cuts and bruises are not helping. Arthur’s horse is taller and sturdier than Cali. Your morgan might not be the largest or strongest of breeds, but they are economical both in price and food consumption, easy to handle and suits your needs just fine. You spur Boadicea into a steady, rhythmic trot, urging the steed to go faster and faster until she’s at a full gallop. You hunker down and cling to the saddlehorn for bare life. The bouncing up and down does nothing to ease the throbbing going from your temples all the way to your neck. A familiar outline eventually comes into view, the bridge close to Ringneck Creek delta - and the site of ambush.  Entering the forest grove surrounding the creek you spot a familiar item on the ground. You get lightheaded the moment you dismount from the steed, and you cling to the saddle waiting for the queasiness to release its clutch on your stomach, after which you pick up Arthur’s well-worn, tattered leather hat and place it on your head, a chortle escaping you.

“This was a lot more fun the last two times I did this,” you mumble. Chuckling at your own joke, you grab the reins and lead Boadicea through the forest, apprehension creeping over you when you arrive at your cottage a few minutes later. Cali is not here. What if he’s…? _NO!_ You shout his name, forcing back the tears burning your eyes. There is no time to search for him. No time to fall into an apathic state of trepidation. You shove your emotions aside.

“Wait here, girl.”

The lacerations you’ve earned during your indisposed surprise adventure are superficial but they hurt nonetheless. There is no time to tend to the multitude of cuts and bruises from when you tried to fight gravity on that hillside, but you clean and cover up your red-flamed hands and chew down a new type of painkiller, Aspirin. You remain seated for a moment, resting your head against your bandaged hands on the very same chair you had once tended to Arthur’s bruised wrists, a memory which in your perturbed state of mind entraps you in a soundless, tearless sob, the rise and fall of your shoulders being the only sign of crying. You go through name after name in search of a possible ally, excluding them one by one. Who would believe you? And even in the off chance they did, they would surely try to convince you to not risk your life and reputation for an outlaw, including the law. In particular the law. The unconfirmed, but nonetheless very real possibility that the men responsible for this quandary are working for the Grays means the law cannot be trusted as in this town the law and the Grays are synonymous. A feeling of hopelessness swells in your stomach like dough on a hot summer’s day as you come to realize, you’re in this all alone. The throbbing above your temples intensifies. You want to lie down. Just for five minutes. But you fear that if you do, you will either fall asleep or break down in tears. Or more likely, the latter followed by the first.

You scoot back in your chair and stand upright. Too fast. Dots of black and white dance before you. Leaning over the dining table, you ponder whether the sudden wave of nausea wrecking your insides is to be blamed on head trauma or emotional stress. An oddly comforting snort followed by faint thuds you assume to be hooves stomping at the ground has the corner of your mouth curl upward. That’s right, you have Boadicea so you’re not all alone at least. If only you knew where to find Arthur’s people. When it is safe to move again, you retrieve an old silver pocket watch that used to be your grandfather’s. Another heirloom that Arthur had tried to steal that night. The handles show quarter to ten. Not as late as you feared. Assuming the timepiece is correct that is.

Your dirt-and-blood-stained clothes would would slow you down, not to mention draw unwanted attention, so you change into a pair of dark brown work pants held up by leather suspenders over a men’s shirt you use for manual labor and a pair of riding boots. Around your waist is a gun belt holstering your six-shooter and a knife, and over your shoulder is a satchel storing a box of pain relievers. You plait your hot mess of a mane into a loose braid, which effectively conceals the gash across your temple. A pair of black fingerless working gloves and Arthur’s hat cover up the remainder of your cuts and the bandages on your hands. Catching a glimpse of your reflection before whisking out the door, you take a moment to get acquainted with your new self. You dip your head, practicing that perfect angle where the broad-brimmed hat conceals your face enough to hide your feminine bone structure, but not enough to look conspicuous. You tug the brim with your thumb and index, practicing a silent greet. In the dark, your identity should be easy to conceal. Heck, you could even pass for a gunslinger. You chuckle at the thought, a boost of confidence rousing from within. You may’ve been called many things in your life, but demure sure ain’t one of’em.

After treating the mare to a treat, you lead her out of the grove and follow the river past Hagen Ranch, slowing from a gallop to a trot as you approach Rhodes. A lonesome traveler is heading in your direction. You lower your head, allowing Arthur’s hat to cover your face.

“Good evenin’ mister,” he greets.

Had you replied your voice would have been a dead giveaway, so you merely tug at your temporary headwear at the stranger passing by, like you had practiced in front of the mirror. Had the circumstances been different the incident would have made you smile, but the fading sound of hooves against gravel serves as a grim reminder that every encounter could mean problems for you, not to mention Arthur.

The doctor’s office is empty and quiet, a stark contrast to the buzzing activity you are used to. You fill your satchel with supplies you think might come in handy with a forbidding sense of _I-should-not-be-here_. Probably because it is true. The opioids, with their alluring promise of total pain alleviation tempt you. Though you are all too aware of the drowsiness that will undeniably ensue so you refrain. All done and packed up, you consider leaving a note telling your employer where you can be found in case things go awry. If you only knew where that would be. At the Braithwaite estate? The old and foul-smelling shack near Pleasance? Passed out somewhere in the woods, or worse? The weight on your hip serves as a reminder of your unlawful enter and theft of medical supplies. With the best of intentions sure, yet leaving behind evidence of your misdemeanors with your name on it does not sound like the best idea.

~*~

About half an hour later, as you trail the shoreline of Flat Iron Lake, the lights from Braithwaite manor comes into view. You yank the reins a little too eagerly and jolt forward, almost flying over the horse’s head as Boadicea immediately goes from trotting to a walking.

“Sorry, girl.”

Leery of your surroundings, you hitch the steed to a small tree near a dried-up delta. You go by foot the rest of the way by making yourself small in the tall grass. Crouched behind a tree you observe the patrols. As soon as the coast is clear, you climb the fence encircling the lavish estate and scurry up to a nearby gazebo where you hide in leaf-covered, lengthy branches poking out of a small but thick shrub adjacent to the steps leading into the octagonal shaped garden structure. With your dark outfit, the guards would have to pretty much stumble over you to find you. You peek behind the grated fence circling the gazebo floor. The manor isn’t far, but with the wide-open and heavily protected grounds it might as well be Fort Wallace. You spot a silo about thirty steps to your right but there is no cover from where you are hiding and the rotund structure. A noise has you turn your head. A wagon appears from the avenue leading up to the manor, soon followed by shouting. You don’t care who they are or why they are coming at this untimely hour as long as they provide the distraction you need. With the inhabitant’s attention at the visitors and everybody screaming about moonshine, you sprint up to the point of interest as quickly and silently as your hunched back and sore limbs will allow. From there you make your way up to the patio encircling the building. _Locked._ You circle a corner, away from the voices. More doors. All locked. Another corner. Another locked door. Now what?

“Hey, you there!”

Footsteps, behind you. Your pulse is thundering in your ears and your mouth dries up instantly. Your skin starts to prickle. _You have been caught._

“Lo siento muchísimo, señor. Me ha perdido la llave y,- eh, no puedo entrar.”

It’s an act of desperation, one that is sure to fail, but what choice do you have? You stealthily move a hand inside your satchel, in search for something long and thin. The sound of footsteps against grass goes stronger, more pronounced. You can only hope he is not on to you – yet.

“I don’t speak Spanish or Italian or whatever that is. You work here? Why aren’t’cha in uniform?”

The next step is not against grass but stone, and then wood. Like the wooden planks making up the patio you are standing on. Your fingers wrap around a rod-shaped object. You wait for the guard to get closer. You will only get one shot at this. Literally.

“Lo siento, señor,” you mumble. “No lo entiendo. Estoy muy casada, y neccesito entrar.”

He is now right behind you. His warm breath whisk against your ear, a whiff of tobacco and a hint of alcohol linger on his clothes. Moonshine you assume. You lower your chin, concealing your face. Tiny droplets of sweat seep out of the pores along your hairline and above your lip.

“You know what?” I think you understand me just fine,” he purrs into your ear. “I also think you don’t belong here.”

A hand lands on your shoulder and yanks you in its owner’s direction.

“Who a-“

You thrust the cannula into his arm, right above the shoulder, expertly injecting the syringe’s content in one go while covering his mouth with your other hand.

“Sorry,” you whisper as his legs give in as the anesthetic does its thing. His body goes limp and falls to the ground, dragging you with him. _Well, so much for being discrete._ You're also pretty sure your rusty Spanish had you blame your discretion on being very married as opposed to very tired.

You roll the lifeless body into the shrubs circling the patio and out of sight of the patrols, whereupon you help yourself to the building by snatching the keys from the feller napping in the bush.

It’s been years since you last sat foot in the Braithwaite library. In awe, you spin about yourself twice. Row upon row, packed with books from floor to ceiling. You skim the titles, many of which you have read, many of which you would love to read and even some, which you’ve never heard of. There is no lack of famous authors, from predictable ones Melville, Shakespeare, Verne, Hugo, Twain and Dickens to the more obscure ones like the occultists Agrippa and Framel. Disheartenedly fewer female authors, but you do spot the most recognized works by Mary Shelley, Emily Brontë and Jane Austen. On a small table next to a sturdy and expensive-looking chair is a copy of War and Peace. You flip through the pages. From the stiff binder and pristine pages, you deduce that this copy has never been read, and is here for display purposes only.

The sitting area is aptly placed next to a crisply burning fireplace. You conjure a mental image of sinking into the stuffed, velvet lining with a glass of wine and your favorite book, or a new one that you have been dying to read. With a heaved sigh, you put the literary masterpiece back where you found it and make your way to the closed door leading out to the entrance hall. You wait, listening for sounds, hearing none other than the cracking of burning wood. You push the door ajar.

After all these years you still remember the layout fairly well and therefore know that Mrs. Braithwaite’s chamber, and by effect what you are here for, is on the second floor. Catherine de Bour- eh, Braithwaite and her sons are getting ready to close the doors on the late-night arrivals, a younger fellar with an Irish accent and an elderly man with a silvery voice being ever so charming and obeisance notwithstanding the elderly woman’s curtness and condescending tone. As the matriarch bids the late-night surprise guests goodbye with haughty disdain, you tiptoe over to the staircase and hide behind the railing. Isn’t there something familiar about the elderly man?

Your attention glued to the residents and their visitors whom are clearly overstaying their welcome, your mind preoccupied with placing that silver voice, you are oblivious to the bright, blue eyes locked onto you. That is, until a hand closes over your mouth and another clutches your arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the lack of Arthur in this one, friends. He will be back and fit for fight in the next, I promise.


	5. Clumsy, Cunning Heroine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Cunning surpasses strength. – Proverb_

Now the primal instinct in such a predicament would be to fight back and make as much noise as possible, though in your case, _that_ might lead to trouble rather than salvation so you remain still, your hand deep into your satchel as you are turned around to a pair of blue gems shamelessly outshining the ones around her arm, a slender finger to scarlet lips beckoning you to be quiet.

Mutual recognition has you both drop your shoulders a little. Penelope encloses her hand around yours, leading you under the staircase and into a narrow corridor, through a door to the left and into a small room whose walls are lined with sausages, plates, fruit, cutlery and the like. Two closed doors grants you the privacy to speak without intervention, albeit quietly.

“What are you doing here?” the blonde starts, her own crystalline blue blazed with confuse and wariness, though not without a glimmer of thrill. “Why are you dressed like this? Why did you-?”

She has every right to bombard you with questions, and you can only praise yourself lucky she hasn’t called the guards on you. You also praise yourself lucky for being granted the advantage of a possible ally – if you play your cards right.

“Pene, I swear, I don’t mean anyone harm. I-I just need to get to Mrs. Braithwaite’s chamber, I don’t have time to explain.”

Definitely _not_ the best choice of words. Distrust darkens her gaze. “I saw what you did to that guard. You broke in here! If you want my discretion you better explain yourself!”

Shame flares through your chest, and you feel your cheeks burn. It sure is nice to have a broad-brimmed hat to conceal your face right now. Not that it invites trust. And you do need her trust.

“I- the guard ain’t dead. He’ll be all right in the morning, though perhaps a bit hungover-ish maybe.”

You don’t know how to even begin an explanation, let alone one that will both be brief and make enough sense to win the young Braithwaite over. You carefully ponder your next words. You need her discretion, but you also don’t want her more involved than absolutely necessary. Nor do you have time for a lengthy account. Brevity has to be weighed against persuasion.

You come to realize, the damsel in front of you isn’t exactly dressed in her usual attire either. She is definitely _not_ preparing for bed, quite the contrary… You adopt an accusatory demeanor akin to hers, using similar allegations, a high risk, high reward approach you presume.

“Wait, why are _you_ dressed like this? When did you see me? And how did you even recognize me in this?” You pause, a sly, deliberate pause, lowering your chin with leisure, and locking your eyes with hers. “You’re sneaking out to meet Beau, aren’t you _?_ ”

Considering the addressee of the assertions, your approach is more expedient and calculating than you are comfortable with, but you do not have the luxury of time which tactfulness would command. The slender finger once again finds its way to her lips.

_“Shhhh.”_

“Bad idea, Pene.”

She gives you this _you’re-the-one-to-talk_ look. “It’s the only way we can meet. When the rest of the world’s asleep. I was on the balcony upstairs about to climb down when I heard your voice.”

You reach out, taking her hands in yours. “Look, we can help each other. If you help me so I can go through Mrs. Braithwaite’s chamber undisturbed, I will let you use my horse.”

You know Miss Braithwaite well enough to know where her loyalty lies and it’s not with her kin, and yet, her brilliant blue are brimming with hesitation and doubt. “I can’t.” She removes her hands, curling them into a ball close to her face. “If they find me, it’s over. I’ll never see Beau again. Or another tomorrow. And besides, I already have a horse.”

“Yes, all of whom belong to your aunt. If you take Arth- my horse, no one here will notice a horse missing. It’s safer that way.”

You can tell by the softening of countenance that she agrees to the logic, and by the rigidness of composure that she is yet to be persuaded. You feel desperation building up. “Penelope, please. I really need your help, it’s life or death, and I stick out here like a blue cock on a pink pig.”

The lady’s eyes widen, and a hand flies to rotund lips to conceal a gasp. Her mien a blend of outrageous astonishment and averse excite, and her complexion all of a sudden a delightful rose, you almost burst into laughter. Almost.

“Eh, never mind. Pene, the man who helped us today, the man who brought you the letter from Beau, he will die unless I find something in Mrs. Braithwaite’s chamber.”

_That might be in Mrs. Braithwaite’s chamber._

“Is that his hat?”

You answer affirmatively and give a brief recap of what had unfolded since you last saw her, reiterating the direness of the situation, and the offer of Arthur’s steed. The accompanying, perpetual change of countenance following your words is indeed a sight to behold.

“He is more than a friend, isn’t he?”

To say the question catches you off-guard would be an understatement. You lower your face. “I-I it’s, it’s complicated.”

“Complicated I do understand. I will help. What do you need me to do?”

~*~

With everybody inside drugged into oblivion thanks to the spiked tea, courtesy of the young Miss Braithwaite, you are free to explore upstairs. To avoid alerting the outside patrols your only source of illumination is a small, portable candle. First, you search the matriarch’s chamber. The ornate, lavish furniture and complementary accessories are appropriate to their proprietor. Two hours later, you have learned more of the Braithwaite family history than you have your entire life. They are, together with the Grays, one of America's oldest plantation families, dating back to 1779. Being on the losing side of the Civil War badly damaged the family economically. It must be why they got involved with moonshine, you reckon. Your past connection to the Braithwaites, even if only by parental ties, has you burning with shame. You can only imagine how Penelope must feel.

_“Funny how we should meet and fall in love, him and me. Two opposing families, two different worlds. Yet we can’t imagine a life without the other.”_

_“Oh, I don’t know about that. You two are more alike than you might think.”_

_“How come?”_

_“Well, the obvious. You’re both from old and wealthy families, and you’re both just about the only kind and caring members of your respective families. You’re both young’n progressive in a place that’s anything but, and you’re both willing to risk everything for each other, and to be with each other.”_

After that, she had hugged you and confided that they had talked about eloping. You had agreed it seems the only way they can be together, yet you think of how you might never see her again with a thickness growing in your throat.

Hours tick by. Chamber after chamber, you search every nook and cranny. Scrutiny and leaving no trace behind weighs against the strain of time has you in constant, ever-growing stress. Concerning your objective, however, there is nothing of interest.

You head back to the matriarch’s chamber for one final, desperate search. You scan the walls, the furniture, the fireplace… There has to be something- flickers! A sudden, lively dance of light sends your heart racing. After the terror of having possibly alerted the guards subsides as no trampling of footsteps are heard, your attention switches to the source of the wavering flickers – the tiny flame. All doors and windows are securely shut. Is there a draft somewhere? You move. The flame quickly stills. You step back, in front of the large stone mantelpiece. The flickering resume. You let the candle glide against the stone surface, running your fingers over the mantelpiece.

_Click._

The hidden compartment has not been opened in many years, perhaps not even in decades. It looks empty save for a spider or two though with investigative eyes you spot what looks like a small box deep within the enclosure. You use your knife to pry open the metal lid. Everything inside appears to be quite old. A few, tattered knick-knacks. Jars with faded labels whose contents you can only guess. Faded documents whose writing has become near illegible. You gingerly remove and unfold the yellowish paper from an envelope. The letter is in better condition, dated May 1st, 1806 to one Douglas Gray from a Lucille Braithwaite.

A smile forms on your lips the moment you start reading. It appears Beau and Penelope aren’t the only _Romeo-and-Juliet_ couple this town has seen. Your smile, however, quickly fades as you read further. Firstly, because it dawns on you that a letter from a Braithwaite to a Gray found inside the Braithwaite mansion likely means that it never reached its recipient, and secondly, because for every word it becomes more and more clear that there might not be any gold to be found. The youngsters were plotting to steal their respective families’ gold to fund the abolition of slavery, arguing that both sides would accuse the other of having stolen their wealth. That had come true. This town has been stuck in the middle of a near century old family feud because of a grand misunderstanding.

There are more letters, scribbles and sketches. You skim the contents. The price Lucille had to pay for her love was exile. She speaks of it with anxiousness in another letter dated two weeks after the first, after which she seems to have disappeared. A torn paper catches your eye. It _could_ be part of a treasure map. Together with the letters, you conclude that the two lovers had stacked away gold for their future children, made a treasure map and split it in two, each hiding away their respective part. You can only speculate as to what had happened to the lovers, why these documents have been hidden and by whom. Perhaps had someone stumbled onto Lucille’s stash and stored the torn map here hoping to one day find the other half. You are at loss as to how Scarface has become privy to this information, but it hardly matters. Arthur is what matter now.

So if this is Lucille’s part, where is the other? Not here, that is for sure. Nor do you have time to look for it. You shove the papers into your satchel, in your head already planning your escape.

 _“I will forever be grateful, Pene,” you had whispered to her back as she whisked outside_ , _into the darkness to meet her lover, trying to not think of how in your case, forever might be over before sunrise. “Follow the lake north. You’ll find her tied to a tree near a dried-up river. When you no longer need her, send her on her way. She will find her way back. Her name is Boadicea. Good luck.”_

~*~

As you had offered up Boadicea in exchange for Penelope’s help and discretion, you have no choice but to travel _per pedes apostolorum,_ or in plain’ole English, hoofin’ it. Free of skirts and linens you take every shortcut, trudge through muddy fields, leap over trenches and sprint through groves on hurried, lengthy strides. You wonder where Arthur’s folks might be. Though you doubt it would do you much good stumbling about looking for them in the midst of the night, not to mention the likely risk of being shot on sight in the off-chance you were to find them.

Reaching the mansion across the Rhodes Parlor House, you allow yourself a short break. With heavy breaths you lean on your knees, tasting the sting of exercise on your tongue mixed with salty sweat. You lift your head to admire the flowery garden, the proud work of your father and brother.

_“Has anyone seen Gavin? Gav... Gav?”_

The masterly adorned grounds never fail to fill you with pride at your kin’s handiwork. A new and yet oddly familiar sight catches your eye. A hammock, surrounded by roses and petunias, a scenery ringing so true to a daydream of yours, one that’s been following you from your adolescent years and into adulthood. One that you had shared with your father once, years ago. You had no idea he’d recreated it here. It must’ve been recently. You stare at the furniture with a growing feel of nostalgia, your eyes both focused and distant at once as sounds go distant and surroundings blur. You pay no heed to the noise from the Parlour, nor of the man in blue approaching you.

_"Miss, have you seen... I'm looking for my friend."_

A recurring daydream trespass your mind, briefly quenching the flares of trepidation. You curl up in the hammock you own in your heart, enjoying the tranquility of nature with lazy eyes or reading a book as the afternoon sun casts longer and longer shadows, until day turns to night.

_“Miss, please. Have you seen…”_

As of late, someone else has entered this serene and utmost private, spiritual escape. You rest your head against his chest, and in the safety of his embrace, you cradle your tummy as you watch the descending sun together. You mimic the gesture in real life, wistful for a future that will never be.

“Miss, have you-“

“No, I haven’t seen your friend Gavin!” you near-scream. The deflated look on the man in front of you has you immediately regret your outburst.

“Why are you even out looking for him still? It’s the middle of the night!”

"Gav... Gav? Where are you?"

Palms to forehead he continues his mantra of concern for this mysterious friend. You’re not sure whether he is still talking to you or not.

“I- I’m sorry, okay. I didn’t mean to-“ You gaze up at the night sky, still dark as coal peppered by a myriad of stars, but not before long, a bright stripe to the east will appear...

_I have my own friend to worry about._

“When did you last see him?”

"I, eh - one morning I woke up and he was gone. Gavin - I think… someone took him. From me."

“Someone took him?! How can you be so sure? Maybe he just, you know…”

“Gavin? No...no. We were best mates, miss. I mean, _really_ best mates. He'd never leave me. Never.”

You offer your sympathies and try to suggest Gavin might not be in Rhodes any more, considering the Englishman’s efforts has turned up fruitless.

“You are quite right, miss. Quite right. Had Gavin still been here we would have surely found each other by now. How could I not see - I have been so blind. I must go… maybe Saint Denis. Or up north. He always talked about, or - it doesn’t matter. I will keep searching till I find him. Thank you Miss. I shall leave at once.”

“I hope you find him,” you shout at his back.

“I won't give up.”

Due to the chance encounter with Gavin’s friend, the pause has been lengthier than intended. You pick up pace, zigzagging the forlorn, drunken figures stumbling through Main Street on ankles no less weary than your own, though for entirely different reasons altogether. They seem to be out in numbers tonight. One might think the Parlour was handing out free liquor!

The church spire coming into view is a sign of half the distance travelled. How your aching feet shall survive the other half you have no idea. Nevertheless you pick up pace, with the bitterness of strain once again stinging your tongue. Sunrise is less than two hours away. It seems hopeless, that you should make it back in time. Make it back at all. Unless you ‘borrow’ a horse -

That’s when you hear the neigh.

Not just any neigh. A soft, but joyful neigh, reserved only for you.

Your heart, already hard at work thumping from worry and exercise, is now pounding fiercely against your ribs. You barely dare to hope…

“Cali!”

Defying your tired ankles, you run up to the stallion patiently waiting by the white-picket fence circling the churchyard.

“Cali, it’s you. It’s really you. At last I found you.”

Or perhaps, it is he who had found you. To your left is the outline of your sister’s tombstone, a pitch-black silhouette against a sky now more indigo than black. “You knew I’d come back here, didn’t you? My faithful Cali.” You place your forehead to his muzzle. “My Ex _cali_ bur.”

At last your tired feet can get some much-needed rest. You travel fast, following Kamassa River to Ringneck Creek, then you follow the railroad until you reach an abandoned mining area at Eris Field where you hitch Cali to an old mine cart. To the east, pre-dawn light bathes the nearby clouds in a rosy hue. It’s a sight that has always left you in speechless awe, rapt by the sheer miracle of _being alive,_ conscious and aware to relish such wondrous view no poetry or painting could ever do justice. This time however, you are void of such marvel as the birth of a new day also brings with it the looming threat of death. You down another two painkillers and start walking with quick, hasty steps.

You don’t remember the exact location of the cottage, but you know it’s on top of a small hill near Pleasance, so you follow a road that you know leads to the abandoned town. The crossroad and abandoned buildings finally coming into view, you spot a road to your left leading up to the knoll where your journey began. That – that would’ve been useful to know _then_. You could’ve saved yourself the shortcut down the hillside. Mentally berating your own inattentiveness, you take a sharp left and head up the path no longer obscured by darkness. Shortly thereafter, you reach the shack. Now, you could knock on the door and hand over the torn paper, which may or may not be the map in question, which may or may not be a map at all, and hope they will let you go. You reckon though, the odds are not in your favor. And definitely not in Arthur’s.

You take cover behind the wagon from earlier. It’s time to lure out these scumbags.

The long walk has given you ample time to plan ahead. Hiding behind the cart, you retrieve matches and flasks of disinfectants collected from the doctor’s office. The latter you use to drench the cart and the firewood cargo upon which you set the whole thing on fire. It burns slowly at first. You sneak behind a stack of logs where you watch the wagon become engulfed in flames the same color as the eastern sky – a bright, amber glow blending with a foreboding red.

The men inside are soon enough alerted. As the door burst open, you circle the building, whereupon you grab a hold of the sill of a glassless window, hoist yourself up, and crawl thought. Due to careful observation the night before, you know it leads into the room where you’d been held captive. When performing such an act, which requires not only physical strength but sufficient control of one’s limbs to maintain the delicacy of balance as well, unless the act has been performed many a times before, speed needs to be sacrificed if success is to be ensured. When speed is of the essence, however, as is the case here, agility and grace becomes near impossible to maintain for the untrained person, and the inevitable happens. You plonk head-first onto the foul-smelling floor.

 “<Y/n>, is that you?”

His voice is numbly, drowsy. Caked in dust, lint, mold and something sticky you hope is just cobweb you crawl to your knees, ready your knife, and start cutting the rope around his wrists.

“You were sleeping? Seriously Arthur, how can you sleep in a situation like this _?!_ ”

That lengthy exhale is most certainly in conjunction with an eye-roll. It would appear, he does not appreciate your heroism. Thankfully, you are allowed to work on the rope without any clever commentary from the hostage. The déjà vu itself is more than enough thank you very much.

“I told you to not come back here.”

“You are most welcome,” you snap. So does the last fiber of the rope.

Despite him behaving exactly as you had expected, your tone is not lacking in discontent. Though there is no time for further bickering as before you can even rise to your feet, one of the loonies bursts through the door and pins Arthur to the floor. It all happens so fast that you, in your half-standing, half-crouching stance tumble backwards, headfirst into one of the bunk beds.

The bump, while not serious, is enough to put you in a moment of disoriented haze where nothing exists but the sounds of struggle coupled with a sense of alarm. You lift your head to Arthur being dragged across the floor by the lapels of his shirt by _…_ is he the one whom had beaten Arthur with the shotgun? Enforcer One? Two? Never mind. You leap forward and start pulling at the assailant’s arm, only to be knocked back with one quick sweep.

You scoot out your bruised arms in embrace for yet another involuntarily _up-close-and-personal_ with the mold-infested, urine-reeking floor. Empty bottles and old shoes scatter in all directions. As helpless as you feel, your interference has served its purpose – distracting the aggressor. One head-butt later Arthur pulls him to his feet. After half a dozen near-hit punches, grunts and dodges shotgun-loony succeeds in landing a hit. The blood seeping from Arthur’s nose earns a smug look from the puncher.

 _That_ only serves to make the outlaw angrier. A second later, the outlaw, _your_ outlaw, punches his opponent in the throat, which has him gasping for air. The former does not wait for the latter to recover before lifting him up by the collar and hurling him through the door, completely demolishing it in the process.

A squeak from old and rusty hinges and the rest of the frame collapses. You follow the thumps and grunts to the other room. _Quick!_ Do something - a kitchen pot! Caked in - no time for squeamishness. You grab the utensil with both hands and swing on your heels to see Arthur sending his opponent to the floor with a killer blow.

The outlaw wastes no time barricading the entryway, and then proceeds to grabs his gun belt from the dining table, mumbling that you need to get the hell out. You couldn’t have agreed more.

“Where’s my guns?”

A loud thump steers your attention to the blocked door. The sight of wood bulging inwards has you go numb with fear. This can only mean one thing; Scarface and his two remaining loonies are trying to force their way inside, and the only thing stopping them is a battered, creaking old chair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After thinking about it back and forth, what ultimately felt most right for me was for us to save Arthur without the help of the gang. As always, thank you all for your continued support and interest.


	6. Perturbation By Pleasance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _She was convinced that she could have been happy with him, when it was no longer likely they should meet. – Jane Austen_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For an optimal mood-setter I suggest listening to "The Sound of Silence" by Disturbed once the text in cursive starts, or ends, which is totally what I was listening to as I wrote this chapter. I hope this triggers some of the emotions in you that it did in me when I wrote this.

The kitchen pot that was in your hands is now sent hurling through the window above the sink, effectively and loudly shattering the glass into a hail of deadly sparkles.

“A way out!” you shout.

“Move!”

As you don’t fancy severed arteries you take time to clear out shards still stuck in the windowsill with a dirty plate from the sink, all the more grateful you are wearing gloves. The smash of glass is followed by a creak. One more push-

“Gimme yer gun!”

“Wha- oh!”

You hand him the Cattleman you had forgotten you had. A revolver in both hands, one from you and another he took from the fellar he just beat up he steps up in front of you, shielding you with his body. A second later you hear gunfire and you just know, the last creak did the door in. He is fast on the trigger, fast enough to outgun the three men outside.

“Move! I’ll cover you.”

“What about you?”

“Right behind ya.”

You dive through the opening and fall almost your entire body length before hitting the ground. Working clothes with thick fabric protect you from the slivers of broken glass cracking beneath you but not from the impact, which knocks the air out of your lungs, leaving you gasping for breath and Arthur nearly landing on top of you.

After a brief pause, the sound of discharged firearms once again threatens to pierce you eardrums. As soon as you’ve regained the ability to breathe like a normal person, you push yourself upright to Arthur firing to his left while simultaneously watching his right. His hand snatches out, clutches your arm and you holler in pain as he drags you around the corner, into cover behind a stack of planks.

“This need reloadin’!”

By instinct you grab the revolver in his outstretched hand. His face is drained of color, making the bruises around his nose and mouth look like patches of purple on a white canvas. You reload the arm with trembling fingers to the distracting, treacherous roars of gunfire rumbling the otherwise still country air, trying to not think of how the next thunderous roar could mean the end for you – or him. It’s one thing to shoot at bottles and cans, it’s an entirely different experience altogether to be in the midst of an actual gunfight, where any movement could be someone out to end you, making even the most innocent shape look like the silhouette of a man or the outline of a hat.

“Got one!”

You could guess as much from the dreadful scream and subsequent series of threats and promises of retaliation. You hand back the loaded Cattleman and commence reloading the other, empty revolver while Arthur continues firing, each projectile abruptly stopped by something inanimate or living, with equal, indiscriminate unfeeling as he takes out another foe with adept and perfunctory.

“There’s still one more left. Wait here.”

“No, don’t leave.”

Back flat against the woodpile, mouth dry and palms moist you clutch the gun in your hands, making yourself as small as you can in that corner of wall and lumber. A shot pierces the air and your figure shrinks as waves of alternating hot-and-cold course through you. You listen, with every crumb of awareness, for clues as to where the sound had originated, hearing nothing but ambient sounds through the blood rushing to your head.

Your surroundings feel muted, unreal. Your eyes are fixed on green leaves against a sky painted by the warm colors of early dawn. You have never felt so exposed in your life. Your only comfort is that this will be over soon, one way or another. A second shot rips through the air. As silence returns, it feels far more pressing than before, as if the world itself is holding its breath.

A few seconds pass by, though it feels like an hour. Then you hear a familiar voice calling your name. You raise your head to the silhouette of a tall and broad-shouldered figure bathing in the orange, nascent rays of the rising sun, a pistol in one hand, a cowboy hat in the other. Your hand rushes to your head. When had you dropped it?

He holsters the Cattleman and rakes his fingers through a tousled mane before putting on his hat. Your shoulders drop, and the prickling subsides. No more flashes of hot and cold. Against all odds, he is alive. You are alive. You are both alive. It’s over, with the best outcome you could have wished for.

You crawl out of the hiding place and run up to him, hand on temple to shield your eyes from the slanted, near horizontal rays of the rising sun. His shirt is torn. Sprung buttons expose the upper half of his chest, enkindling intimate memories, filling you with warmth - in more ways than one. _The hairs on his chest brushing against your palms. His body heat radiating onto your skin. Trailing the outline of his collarbones with your fingertips…_

You realize too late you have been caught staring. Warmth creeps up your cheeks.

“The hell are you doing here?”

He had without a doubt caught the spark of lust in your eyes. How could he not? He pays no heed to it however, instead meeting your eyes with a grim stare drilling into your soul.

“Sorry to disappoint you Arthur,” you digress with feigned equanimity, “but there is no gold. It was used to fund th-.”

“I ain’t givin’ two shits ’bout the gold. What was you thinkin’ woman _?!_ ”

“You’re most welcome,” you scoff.

“I told you to forget ’bout me and get yerself to safety. I ain’t worth risking yer life for.”

Color is rapidly returning to his face, bringing with it an additional searing rash. His lips are pressed together, inducing a parting of yours. His countenance, you can’t quite place it. There is anger and infuriation, yes, but something else as well, reminiscing alarm.

 _Fear?_ For his own life? From how you’ve come to know him, doubtful. You remember his words from last night, his promise to you and you realize; fear that something could have happened to you.

This is far from the nonchalant and blasé demeanor that has been nettling you since you first met. _Then_ it had seemed like nothing could ever woe or disturb him. Now you know that is not true, and you wonder if it had all been a guise, a façade to hide the _real_ him.

“The hell you aren’t,” you sneer. “After you said you’d risk _your_ life to keep me safe, I should just up and forget about you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that ain’t gonna happen.” You knit your arms together and shoot him a frosty stare to conceal your disheartenment. You had expected some disapproval, but not this seething disdain.

“I got enough lives on my conscience already,” he continues, pointing at his head. “I be damned to have yours as well.”

As he says the word _yours_ , his index shifts from his head to his chest. He proceeds to close his hands over his belt, stepping closer. Torturously close. His voice is but a hoarse growl. Calm, but with an undertone searing of forewarning. “In case you forgot Princess, I’m an outlaw. I live a dangerous life. I’m hunted. By the law, Pinkertons… being ‘round me ain’t safe.”

“Don’t be an outlaw then.”

He makes an unprompted backstep as if he can’t quite believe what he just heard, though he is quick to regain composure, or, atleast a perception of calmness.

 “Ain’t that easy.”

“Why not?” His response is a brusque turn of head, and a curl of his mouth forming a grin of amused irritation. “No, seriously, why not? Tell me.” Still no answer. “I know there was a time when you had no other choice,” you press. “But now you do.”

“Even if I stop shootin’n stealin’ they still go after me. The world don’t want folks like us ‘round no more.”

His stance leaves a sour taste in your mouth. Physically he’s but an arm’s length away, but between you is a chasm of contrary of values and opposing morals and life lessons.

“The world never wanted thieves or murderers, Arthur.”

“That includin’ you? ‘Cause I am a thief. And a murderer. I kill people.”

The last sentence is underlined by a raised arm pointing at the bodies of your assaulters only a few yards away. His voice is low and controlled. Cold. The kind of calm one is when emotions are simmering within. Now _he_ is the one who is feigning equanimity.

You swallow a sob. “Are you really? Deep down?”

“Don’t matter.”

“Look, the world we live in, it’s changing, whether you like it or not.” You try to pick up the thread from yesterday before the surprise assault. His mien softens, which ignites within you a spark of sanguinity. “You-you need to adapt, or you’ll perish. It’s survival of the fittest.”

For a moment, you truly believe your words are sinking in. _For a moment._ Then his guise returns. “Guess I’ll perish then,” he says yesterday’s conversation all but forgotten as he lets out a humorless, dead chuckle strangling that flicker of hope with such ruthless fierce your hand flies to your chest.

“Great plan,” you mock. “I am amazed by your logic and reasoning. Color me bloody impressed.”

 “Oh, I ain’t never been good with logic or reasonin’. Or modern society. My place’s with the savages’n the animals.”

“Keep telling yourself that, Arthur. See how that works out for you.”

“I guess we _shall_ see.”

 _Why am I wasting my time on you?_ You bite your lip to stop yourself from saying it out loud, though there is a part of you that want to. “So that’s it then, outlaws for life? Whatever remains of it. Is that how it’s going to be?”

“I guess.” He shrugs his shoulders, seemingly unmoved by the lustre in your eyes and your unsteady voice, but the rise and fall of his chest coinciding with rapid, shallow breaths hints at the range of emotions simmering within.

“In that case, I fear your life might come to an early end.”

Your attempt at being confrontational is once again met with a haughty chuckle devoid of mirth.

“I ain’t disagreeing with you.”

You choke down another budding sob. Reasoning which to you is simply good sense appear to him as ridiculous poppycock and you can’t understand it. The chasm is now a bottomless abyss, and therein lives Kraken, crushing every hope of reconciliation by pulling you far away from each other with slimy, powerful tentacles.

Pandora’s box has been opened and the demon unleashed. Right now, all it takes is but one glance, one wrong word or a sharpness of tone to stir a cyclone of cruel, honest truths and harsh, unforgiving insults you’ll both later come to deeply regret. Hurting each other in ways that only lovers can, when their worldviews collide.

“You know what, every time I’m about to forget about you and things start feeling like normal, here you are. Stirring it all up again.”

A flicker of indignance ghost over his face, and in that fleeting moment his features soften, only to be rapidly replaced by devilish disdain. “In case you forgot, Miss. I’m just a low-life thief who broke into yer house and tried’a steal from ya,” he needlessly recalls in a gritty tone brimming of mockery. “Though you certainly didn’t seem to mind me _then_.”

You are vexed by the way his smug grin seems to widen proportionally to the rising warmth in your cheeks. Vexed, because for all the words exchanged, for all the coldness to his conduct, you still long to be embraced in his arms. Even now. Words not yet entered your consciousness leave your mouth.

“Fuck you!”

His grin widens. “Yeah, that’s what you did.”

Then the haughty smirk fades, and disenchantment darkens his eyes. “I was good enough for _that_.”

It feels as if your entire figure is shrinking. You place an arm on your abdomen as if that would settle the ache from the emotional punch of his words. You knew this would at some point, one way or the other, be thrown back in your face. Nevertheless, it hurts like hell.

“I-I, sorry I-.”

“You was the one who started this,” he frostily reminds, effectively cutting you off. “But I’ll be sure to keep my distance. You have my word.”

You fight back the urge to throw insults at his face. Sneer back that you didn’t exactly ask for a break-in. Remind him that you could’ve had him arrested but didn’t. Because… because of your unfortunate inclination to imprudently pursue whims when agitated, something that has brought you enough trouble already when it comes to this outlaw, as he just so kindly reminded you, so you keep the words to yourself. You _had_ chosen to be intimate with him, chosen for you both. _You_ had confronted him on the churchyard, _and_ at the suffragette rally, _you_ had gone after him when he’d helped Beau with his cousins…

“Why couldn’t you just have turned me in?”

“You’d rather risk the gallows?” Your voice is but a whisper through trembling lips. Brittle and wobbly, it’s a wonder the words even come out comprehensible.

“At this point? Yeah.”

You shudder in disbelief, in disillusionment, in regret, in bitter hurt. There is nothing left for you here.

“Fine!” you hiss.

“Fine!” he returns.

“Fine,” you shout over your shoulder as you stomp away, grateful that he can’t see the tears welling in your eyes.

“Fine,” you hear behind your back.

 _Fine, fine, fine, fine_ you mumble to yourself. _I’m fine._ _Just fine. I don’t need that prick in my life._

The self-reassurance lasts until you reach the railroad, when a familiar neigh has you falling apart. You put your forehead to the animal’s muzzle, tears streaming freely.

You are not fine.

~*~

_Arthur’s hated himself for almost as long as he can remember, but tonight the self-loath has reached a new low. The hurt in your eyes, and knowing he was the source of it, punishing you for willingly and knowingly putting yourself in danger for him, why he cannot even begin to fathom, abides his every waking moment. You just wanted to save his life. And in return, or perhaps therefore, he had acted like a fool - uncompromising, abrasive, uncivil. Spewing out unfeeling, vicious words too harsh to be forgiven let alone forgotten, well aware they would cause you pain._

_He opens his journal with the intent to dwell into a three-page rant, but for the first time in his legible life the pencil merely hovers in the air. Frustrated by his incapability to convert the mess in his head to real, perceivable words on paper, he slams the leather-bonded hardback shut and chucks it back into the satchel. His hand strikes a rotund shape. Your most treasured belonging. Something you without doubt miss dearly. A memento of your first and last conversations, both equally vehement, tempestuous, and passionate._

_After that first night, you had left him feeling all sorts of confused, something that had intensified with each chance meeting. Argumentative and confrontational in nature, you had forced him to think differently, to see the world differently. You had tried to see good in him. Which in turn had made him want to be good. To do good. And he had tried. He really had. But to him, kindness is hard._

_Not to you, though. Why is it so hard for him to simply be kind yet it falls so naturally to others, like you? Your mere presence makes the world seem like a better place. He thinks with poignant fondness of your admirable perseverance and stubborn determination, your insight and wits - the way your touch makes him feel. Like tiny needles pricking him from the inside, but sweetly, lingering for hours. That is something he’s never felt before, not even with Mary. Not to that extent, anyways._

_Your smile, a rare but precious sight to behold indeed, one which he does not hesitate to place amongst the rarest and most beautiful of God’s creation, - like that white Arabian he’d found near Lake Isabella. He wonders how your laugh sounds. He almost heard it, once. It is joyful he thinks, soft, fragile and timid, like a newborn filly taking her first, brittle steps, with a melody sweeter and more alluring than a Siren’s hymn…_

_No!_

_What the hell is he doing? He is an outlaw for goodness sake. A thief, a murderer - and a fool in love. There is no hope for a future with someone outside of this dangerous and pitiful existence he calls his life. The only life he knows. It had never worked with Mary, and to even dare to let that thought slip in that maybe, just maybe… it is to beg for anguish and wretchedness. Besides, you are too good for him. He could never make you happy or be the man you deserve. He doesn’t deserve your love, doesn’t deserve happiness. If he can even remember what that feels like anymore._

_He reopens his journal and finds a blank page. He knows exactly what to do with his pencil now._

~*~

A noise stirs you awake. A faint, but an out-of-place noise nonetheless. Half-awake-half-in-slumber, you’re not exactly sure what - or whom, but you know it was neither the wind, nor the howling, hooting or rustling of a nocturnal creature. Oh, you know those sounds well, and this was not any of’em. Though unlike last time, there is no one in your house.

There it is again! That distinct, dry and tired crack of something heavy on a wooden plank. _Footsteps._ Outside. Faint snorts from a horse’s muzzle that is not Cali follows alongside hooves trampling against the ground.

You step out of bed and enter the living room with your gun cocked. As you thought, empty. Peering out every window you see only the familiar shadows. When reaching the door leading outside, you halt. Ear to woodwork, you listen, hearing nothing but the usual, hushed sounds of the night. Whatever, _whomever_ , had been on your porch is now gone. You unhook and push the door ajar. The air is warm, leaving you with nothing to blame that shiver running thought you but apprehensiveness as you step into the night, attentive and wary.

Cali’s at his usual spot, calm as ever. The stallion’s _at-ease_ demeanor makes you drop your shoulders. Had there been anyone around with ill intentions, he would not be so quiet. Of that you are sure. You are equally sure someone was here, only a moment ago.

“Hey, boy. Did we just have guests over?”

A soft neigh is your answer. You glance around, all of a sudden wondering where the white-coated fox has gone off to. You used to see its bushy tale disappear into shrubs or behind trunks almost every day, a fleeting glimpse of white against a canvas of brown and green. It must be a couple of weeks now since you last saw it. Though aside from the missing animal, nothing seems out of the ordinary. That is until you glance down, and the gleam of a familiar shape catches your eye.

You fall down to your knees to clutch in your hand what you had believed to be lost and gone forever. To Anna smiling at your tear-streaked face. The gratitude is overwhelming, and you nearly miss the sheet underneath. Even without looking you know from whom, and your smile fades. Not sure what to expect yet certain it’s going to give you grief one way or another you carefully separate the corners. The moment your eyes land the unfolded, yellow paper, air gets stuck in your lungs.

It’s a sketch of you curled up on your favorite couch, where you had been sitting that afternoon when he’d walked you home. When you had shared with him what happened to Anna. Your fingers trail the delicately ornate pattern on the medallion around your neck. It’s – you compare the render to the locket in your hand – spot on. So, this is how he sees you. You never thought you could look so beautiful in anyone’s eyes. You flip the paper and read the writing on the back.

_“I’m sorry for coming here, and for trying to steal from you what means so much to you. Sorry for the pain I caused, all of it. Sorry for everything. You’re a fine woman, <y/n>. Take care of yourself. AM”_

A crippling pain so profoundly deep you haven’t felt since the night you lost Anna swells in your chest, impossible to keep locked inside. Heart wretched by poignant ache, boundless yearn and a repentance profound and vile, you curl up against the wall. Making no attempt at holding back the flow of tears you cry out your anguish between breathless, wheezing sobs, carried by the warm summer night’s air until they reach the ears of the artist.

“Goodbye, my love.”


	7. Sweet, Bittersweet, Tenacious Love I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “𝐴𝑙𝑙 𝑡𝘩𝑎𝑡 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑚𝑎𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑚𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝒍𝒐𝒚𝒂𝒍𝒕𝒚. 𝐼𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝐼 𝑘𝑛𝑒𝑤. 𝐼𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝐼 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑑 𝑖𝑛, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒚𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆.” _– Red Dead Redemption II_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The finale is split into two parts due to the word count.
> 
> As we are now in chapter 4 of the canon timeline, there will be a reference to Sean's death.

A thump stirs you out of your muse. You close the book you’ve been trying to read all evening and sit upright. _That did not sound like an animal._ The first thud is soon followed by a second and this time, you positively see the door budge. You are not an easily scared woman. No gasp or yelp leaves your lips, and your heartbeat is relatively normal. Though you are a woman living alone. In a forest grove. Isolated enough to not draw attention from neighbors. You feel the prickling of rising goosebumps as you sit taut, listening. Seconds pass. There are no more thuds to be heard or bumps against your door to be observed. You wait another minute. Still nothing. Wary, you get your Cattleman.

A man lies spread across your porch. Next to him, a tattered, black leather hat you’ve seen, and worn, more than once. Three times to be exact. You stand frozen for the length of a sharp intake of breath, then you fall to your knees, vigorously shaking his shoulder.

For all the emotions that well-worn, blue shirt stirs in you, _you_ fail to stir from him a response aside from a few insentient grunts. _Is he...?_ You turn him around. The pungent aroma of strong liquor and a putrid stench of bile sting the inside of your nostrils. No, save from a cut above the eyebrow where the forehead meets the temple, he is not injured. Just drunk out of his mind.

You tether Boadicea next to Cali and go to attend to the highly unanticipated evening guest. Or, try to. Despite a steady increase in vigor and tone no amount of prodding, shaking or shouting can coax from him a response. Agitated, you go to fill a bucket, yes, a bucket of water, and spurt its content over his head. He is in acute need of a wash anyways. The effect is instantaneous and most desirable. He stirs half-upright with a yell, and you waste no time squatting to wrap an arm around his waist while draping one of his around your shoulders before he can slide back into his self-inflicted stupor.

You help him inside to incomprehensible grumbles of maudlin drunkenness conveying lament and confusion, of which you catch little aside from _bad, dumb, dangerous life_ that _ain’t gonna end well_ and something that had happened to Jack, which had caused him, and others, distress. Three clumsy steps later, he trips over his feet, dragging you with him, plunging headfirst onto your dining table where he remains motionless, mumbling into the woodwork.

“What’re we doin’, Dutch?” he asks the tabletop. “When’s gonna end?”

You urge him to move with your hands and voice. The short distance across your living room seems to take forever. When he’s safely collapsed onto your couch you take off his boots – oh, he’s in need of a bath all right, belt, and satchel, which you assemble in a pile on the floor together with his hat.

“Sean… I’m so sorry, kid. I shoulda-shoulda…”

You fill a basin and gather soap, rags, pads, disinfectant, tape, all that is needed to give him a wash and to clean and dress the cut on his forehead. He appears to be inert, all but submerged in his own, alcohol-induced slumber, but he flinches the moment the damp cloth touches his skin.

“That you, <y/n>?!” he exclaims. “Whatcha doin’ out’ere?”

You inform him that you, in fact, live here as you continue to dab the moist fabric along the edges of the laceration, all while gingerly brushing away wet, honey-colored fringes. He mumbles something that sounds dismissive to your actions. You ignore it. He is too inebriated to protest further. You go on to unbutton his shirt, gently pushing the fabric aside. You freeze when you spot a recent, nasty-looking scar at his left shoulder. Shotgun blast, close range. No more than five or six weeks, at most. You’ve seen your share of gun-related injuries to know, recent and old and everything in between. You trace the outline with the tip of your index, contemplating the gruesome event behind.

_What happened, my love?_

You clean him, slowly. To not spill water. To not startle or rouse him. To- savor the moment. Save from unintelligible mumbling as the damp cloth touches his skin, he remains more or less comatosed, though you barely have time to button up his shirt before he heaves forward. You’ve seen your share of that too, and fetch the basin in the nick of time, barely avoiding vomit on your floor. It’s mostly saliva and bile, meaning this is not his first round of _that_ tonight, or the second. You rub his back, you run your fingers through his tousled mane, you reassure him over and over that that he is not alone, that you are here by his side, that he’s safe, and you hope that, in between hawks and coughs and heaves for air, he hears. If not your words explicitly, then atleast your voice.

After he’s done, he collapses onto your lap to a series of apologies, which gradually fades as he falls back into sleep, though it doesn’t take long before his even, deep breaths are disrupted by twitches and shivers as ghosts from this _bad, dumb_ and _dangerous life_ surface to haunt his delirious, drunken mind. With the forbearance and tenderness of a soul deeply in love you calm him by the touch of your hands where you can reach; his arms, his hands, his head and back, complemented by gentle, mellow words of reassurance, until the trembling subsides. That is, till another nightmare stirs.

He’s got his share of demons, this fellar. Deep seated issues that will take him a lifetime to work through. And you want to be by his side as he faces them all. No more denial. No more lying to yourself. For all your apprehensions, divergences of experience, morals and temper, you have fallen in love with him. For better and for worse, you want to be here for him, to see him though his troubles and torments. Share your life with him. You’ve previously denied your feelings, then cursed them, angry and bitter that out of all the people in the world it had to be _him_ , an outlaw. And all it did was give you pain and grief, until you resigned to the idea, that the heart wants what it wants.

The tremors befall him less frequent, and eventually he falls into a deep, dreamless sleep. Soothed by the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest you start dozing off, only to be roused awake with alarm that you’ll awaken to an empty house, robbed of any chance to do what you had wowed yourself. Telling him how you feel. Though powerless to the urge for rest, you eventually fall into slumber, albeit soon wakened by the song of birds greeting a new day. You eat, wash and get dressed to the sound of Arthur’s breath, even and heavy in a way that tells you he is still sound asleep. Every bone in your body aches to stay, but you have no choice but to leave for work, lest you want to lose your income.

They say that by 1920 there will be a telephone in every home. You rather wish that was now. That way, you could have telephoned Dr. Mattock to inform him that you’re prevented from coming in to work today. Though conscientious and diligent by nature, today even the simplest of task fails to hold your attention. All you can think of is Arthur. With the excuse of tending to a sick relative at home the kind doctor lets you off early.

You keep Cali at a slow pace. For one who enjoys spending their evenings alone, the mere thought of doing just that tonight is insufferable. Unwillingly, but irrepressibly you augment your own unhappiness by imagining walking into the empty house, sitting down on the couch where he laid, catching whiffs of his scent all evening. You mourn having lost him again. But you are also grateful. Grateful for having been blessed with the chance of holding him one last time. Grateful that you could offer him help, comfort, and a safe place to rest when he needed it the most. Grateful that your last memory of him will no longer be a heated exchange of cruel, hurtful words.

It is Cali who sees it first. You are too absorbed in thought, too lost in your own muses of misery to notice. Until you hear from your steed the type of neigh horses greet other horses with, and you lift your head. Your house comes into view, and… you lean to the side, squinting. Isn’t that…?

Your eyes register the mare, but your mind is transiently incapable of comprehending that it really is her, Boadicea.

Then Arthur must be… The ache in your chest immediately gives way for astonishment and heart-pounding excite, amped by the smoke from your chimney. You spur Cali into a trot, sprawl of the saddle and rip open the door to the sight of a familiar face by your kitchen counter, his marble-round eyes and o-shaped mouth a reflection of your own flabbergasted expression. Astounded, you remain frozen in the doorway, blurting out his name.

“You’re still here!”

You are home earlier than expected you are told, but food’s coming right up. You frown.

“I, erm, guess I owe you after I, - unless you want me to leave.”

Stumped, you merely shake your head with vigor. He motions at the table, and you sit. The noise and curse words behind you prods you to ask over your shoulder if he needs help. He assures that he has it all under control, followed by more commotion and accompanying expletives as soon as you turn. You hide a smile under the back of your hand. One might be fooled to think that he does not, in fact, has it all under control. A few minutes later, the smell of food fills the stale, indoor air, concealing the faint whiffs of bile and sweat still lingering from last night.

Whiskey tumblers with the applicable amber liquid and a plate is placed in front of you, on it dry meat, bread and baked beans. Not your usual dinner.

“I, um, know it ain’t much.”

“No, it-it's fine,” you assure in hope that he doesn’t read your perplexment as disapproval.

“This the least I could do after makin’ such a mess in yer home,” he mumbles with a look of unease you interpret as mortification. The hand behind his neck drops and he joins you. His tumbler is emptied and refilled before he throws as much as a glance at his plate. You’re starving, but the mere thought of consuming aliments has your stomach churn, leaving you pushing the pile of mashed legumes around with your fork while the need for food wrangles with the butterflies in your tummy.

“I don’t remember much from last night, I, um, shouldn’t’a come here.” Another shot is downed.

“But I’m glad you did,” you say with candor.

A gawky, diffident half-smile tugs at his lips, and you can’t stop the one spreading on yours. You run a hand over your hair and skirt, although the latter is hidden under the dining table. The first mouthfuls are consumed in pressing silence, him waiting for you to speak, you, knowing you should say something, feel heat rising to your face under his stare. Your gaze drops to the plate.

“How are you feeling?” you eventually ask, concurrently stuffing yourself with as many lukewarm beans your mouth can hold.

“Good. I’m feelin’ good.”

Judging by the muffled response, Arthur has done the same. You finish the meal in silence. When your eyes are on the plate his are on on you, and vice versa. There is much to see in his face, bearing heed of struggles, confrontations, and woe. He has removed the gauze pad, leaving the gash on his forehead exposed. A maroon streak that will, with time, turn eggshell white, like the one on his chin. The aftermath of another, untold story.

His hands are safer to linger on, and your gaze drops to his wrists. Broken, more than once. Healed without medical aid, without care, thus remaining slightly kinked. Like his nose. Broken in fistfights, drunken madness, or both, left to heal on its own. Like his heart, his soul, his spirit.

He helps you clear the table and clean the dishes to strained, but pleasant small talk. You wash the cutlery and crockery, while Arthur dries them with a towel. The conversation soon takes a natural turn to your living situation and your parents’ opinions of it, whether good or bad. As women can't own land, this property officially belongs to your father, but you tell him with unconcealed pride that you’ve taken care of expenses and maintenance yourself, with the occasional aid from your brother in the form of manual labor.

"I ain't scared of solitude,” you profess, handing Arthur a cleaned dinner plate. “Neither comfort nor safety could ever persuade me into matrimony. Though it might work for others, a loveless marriage equates to misery in my head. I'd much rather live alone than to marry without love.”

You take the tableware from his hand and put it back into place. “I love my parents dearly, but I longed to be my own person if that makes sense. Our relationship even improved after I moved out. I like the quietness here, setting my own rhythm for the day...” you cook a brow, “although waking up to a lurking shadow sneaking around in the middle of the night certainly gave me quite the startle."

The last sentence is delivered in a good-humored, lighthearted tone, but Arthur looks furious. His upper lip curling into a sneer, he digs his fingers into the fabric. "If anyone-,"  

Then it dawns on him.

You nod towards the mirror. "Better beat up your reflection then, if you wish to give the one feller who's ever made me feel scared in my own home a good beating."

His fist unclenches and his hand drops, deflated. He puts the towel on the counter but holds on to it, leaning heavily on his arm, his face turned away. "Believe me, I often want to." You regret your flippancy.

“I should get going.”

“Please stay! I mean,” you inwardly curse your thoughtless joke, - and your proneness to fluster, “in, erm, my professional opinion, you are not yet fit to ride.”

He snickers at that. “I been worse.”

You close your palm around his arm. His sleeves are rolled up, and your pulse quickens at the touch of your fingertips on his skin. “I-I’m sure you have. But this time, you have me.” Your hand glides down the length of his arm, “I’m sorry for that breaking and entering joke. I didn’t mean to…,” reaching his hand, you take it in yours, “please, stay for a bit. Rest up.”

You give him a light squeeze. He responds with a near imperceptible nod and goes outside to empty the basin, smoke, and care for the horses while you stay inside, brewing coffee. Shortly after, he joins you on the couch, taking the mug from your outstretched hand without really seeing it.

You sit for a minute or five in silence, balancing filled-up mugs between jittery fingers, taking the odd, absentminded sip. Him scratching his chin or plucking at fibers on his shirt. You jiggling your foot over crossed legs, which you uncross, recross, and uncross again. Words and phrases of apology and penitence combine in your heads a hundred different ways, none of them sounding right. Confessions aching to be spoken and heard remain unsaid due to faltering courage.

The hot beverage with the pleasant aroma serves as a buffer to the staleness in conversation by keeping your hands occupied and your senses engaged. Whenever the quietness feels too pressing you indulge in a sip, allowing the heat and the aromas to occupy your mind and your every thought.

“Last time we spoke-,” Arthur starts, and you near spill warm coffee on your skirt, “I said some things I… Why’re you being so kind to me?”

“Because I care.”

Your response is immediate. And so is his. “I don’t deserve to be cared ‘bout. Deserve no pity, no forgiveness, no nothing.”

You place a hand on his wrist. “Yes, you do.”

Your assertion is met with a bitter, venomous snort. You tighten your grip. “To care is to reach out when someone's in pain, be it emotional or physical. To lend a sympathetic ear, a shoulder to rest on or cry on. It’s called empathy.”

Bitterness stings your chest. Surely it sounds like poppycock to him. After a pause he nods, out of agreement or resign you do not know. You move your hand, touching his leg. He takes note of that. Midways between his knee and hip you give a light squeeze before removing your hand. Not out of modesty, prudence or decorum. You’ve never given any of that a nickel of thought. Oh no, it is because of how impudent and presumptuous you’d been when you first met. You touch the locket always around your neck, repenting how you brazenly and insolently had demanded from him pleasure with nothing but your own, self-centered want in mind with little care as to what he wanted or whether he wanted it at all. Ashamed of having read aloud from his journal, with the sole intent of humiliating him.

How selfish had you been that night, thinking that because he’d wronged you, violated your privacy, your property, you were free to do the same. How could you have done such a thing? A contrariety of exhilaration and mortification makes you burn with regret for carnally despoiling him. Burn with shame for relishing it still. Wretched, delightful mistake!

Therefore, you have wowed to not arouse his, or yours desire. Until it pleases _him_.

“I’m sorry for…,” you pluck at your cuticles with you free hand, “for what I did that night.”

An unprompted chuckle half nervous, half amused escapes him. “I’m the one that should be sorry,” he asserts, swirling the beaker in his hand. “I break into someone’s house, I deserve whatever may be bestowed upon me. I’m just glad you didn’t shoot me.”

His response is free of blame, which offers you some relief, though you are much too embarrassed still to speak a word. What he adds however, after a short pause, makes you fiery hot - both for the same and for different reasons altogether.

“Honestly, you wantin’ me that bad, it felt good. Haven’t felt anythin’ like that in a real long time. Never thought I would, either.”

You ignore the fierce pounding in your chest. Try. To. Ignore. “That doesn’t make what I did any less wrong. I-I’m truly sorry for the things I said, and for what I did, - and for reading your journal.”

Arthur dismisses your apology with a huff. He places the half-empty mug with the now lukewarm fluid on the floor and folds his hands in his lap. “You know what I am. Why I came here that night. I deserved it. All of it. I ain’t got no manners, no finesse, no sensibility. I ain’t a good man.”

It sound like a rehearsed mantra. As if he’s been told, by others or himself, this very thing over and over till he’s not only come to believe it but identify with it as well.

“It’s not that you lack finesse or manners per se,” you object, “it’s that you often choose to ignore those things. There’s a difference.”

He shrugs his shoulders. “Is what folks are sayin’.”

“How people perceive things to be and how they really are can be two vastly different things.”

“I guess.”

“A man who lacks finesse and manners, he wouldn’t’ve been kind and gentle when I confided in him what happened to my sister.” You place your beaker next to his, freeing up your hands to lock onto his. “He wouldn’t’ve held me like you did or said the words you said. Or touched me like you-…”

You voice grows thick, and you stop yourself before it breaks.

“I don’t know.”

“I do. I believe there’s always something new to be observed in people _._ ” You bite the inside of your cheek, forcing away looming sobs swelling in your throat. “Two weeks ago, I got a letter from Penelope. You saved them, Arthur. They are alive, together, because you kept them safe, like you kept _us_ safe. Thanks to you, we could complete the rally and Ms. Calhoun could finish her speech without anyone getting hurt. Well, none of _us_ atleast,” you add, referring the Grays he knocked out.

“He offered me mon-”

You don’t even let him finish that thought. “You mean to tell me you did all that for thirty dollars?” He frowns. “Yes, I know. I saw the look on your face. I remember the respect you had for our cause. Money was not your prime motivator, of that I am sure. I want to continue what Penelope and Ms. Calhoun started, because now I have hope. You showed me that there are men who will stand alongside women for our right to vote, to own land... You gave me hope.”

You entwine your fingers in between his, effectively cutting off impending, self-deprecatory retorts. “You’re a good man, Arthur, and don’t you dare let anyone tell you who you are, or what you are - including that voice inside your head telling you that you’re not _cut out for anything else_.”

You bump your shoulder into his. A good-humored accentuation of your words. His lashes sweep down, and the corners of his mouth curves up. A hesitant smile, marking the infancy of a newborn revelation. Then he starts talking. Slow and warily at first, and you listen, free of prejudice and parti-pris. The more he relates the faster he speaks, one word rapidly succeeding the other, like an open faucet pouring out confessions in the form of stories and events gnawing at his conscience.

He begins with his involvement in both the mighty fire at the Gray tobacco farm and the Main Street shootout, the latter which had led to Sheriff’s Gray demise. You had suspected as much.

He talks about his mother in a voice thick with fondness that breaks ever so faintly when he gets to the part where he lost her. His eyes looking but not seeing as his mind is fleetingly besieged by remembrances of a mother’s love and the agony of loss.

What followed was years of roaming the streets with no one he could call a friend. No one who cared whether he lived or died. Then he met Hosea and Dutch, a pair of well-spoken and charismatic conmen, the latter skilled in asserting his philosophies, ideologies and convictions as dogmatic, which easily gained him a following of, in Arthur’s own words, _street kids and other outcasts too dumb to know any better_.

You learn about the rise and forthcoming, inevitable end of the gang he’s been running with all his adult life and a more nuanced picture takes form, where orphaned girls or young women whose only means of survival were begging or prostitution, revolutionaries fleeing corrupt authorities, former slaves and children of former slaves found safety and belonging. Of what might’ve started as a _steal-from-the-rich-give-to-the poor_ mindset has, over time, crossed that blurred line of doing bad for the greater good to just do bad. Or perhaps had it been an illusion all along.

They gave him a family, a purpose, a code to follow, to live by and kill by. And that he had, blindly. For loyalty, for approbation, for an outlet to the bitter, vehement rage devouring his soul he had robbed, beaten and killed for over twenty years, even when against his own sense of honor.

Head lowered in shame he recounts all that which weighs on his heart; jobs gone wrong and ensuing hails of gun smoke and bloodbath. Beating people half senseless for a few cents, often the last few cents they had to their name. He paints you a picture of brothers and sisters in arms that paid the ultimate price for this smoke and mirrors idea of what it means to be free. So free, in fact, that in between all the shooting and running they barely had time to bury their dead - allies, friends, _family._ Names he’d mumbled in his restless, drunken sleep last night. The irksome little brother, that sweet baby sister. Dead. Gone. And for what?

Then he tells you about his son, Isaac.

 _Had._ A small word that, in this context, carries one helluva punch. He _had_ a son. A boy who lived his life as just that – a boy, his life cut short before he could grow into a man. The hurt in Arthur’s eyes is undisguised and raw, his deepest anguish meekly unmasked to you, bare and exposed as he relays in brutal honesty how his son’s death crushed him. Hardened him. Made him reclusive, cynical, cold.

Gone is the hubris and blind vindication of his actions that has been, on your behalf, a recurrent source of vexation and you feel deeply ashamed for ever having judged him as such here you sit listening in silence to his forlorn tales with the taste of pending tears stinging your tongue. You know all too well this kind of pain.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper in a trembly voice. “I’m - I had no idea.”

“I was drownin’ my sorrows in whiskey'n beer for the hundredth time when Hosea told me to start thinkin’ for the hundredth time. And for the first time, I _was_ thinkin’ - that maybe he’s right. After a few more beers, I guess, I thought of the one woman who really got me thinkin’.”

You meet his eyes. “So I _did_ get you to think?”

“More than you'll ever know.”

You ask about Hosea to which he replies the elderly man is doing well, after which silence is once again the reciter. There is so much to be thought and felt, to ponder and to reflect from all that he’s told that for a moment, verbal communication is impossible. For how long you’ve been sitting like this, him talking and you listening with his hand in yours you do not know as contemplations and emotions have clouded the passing of time, but a couple of hours atleast judging by the specks of dust dancing in slanted, yellow-ish sunrays and the long-stretched shadows across your floor.

You know what needs to be said next. What you had promised yourself to confess. You feel the strike of each heartbeat against your ribs.

Deep breath.

“IloveyouArthur.”


	8. Sweet, Bittersweet, Tenacious Love II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I found him whom my soul loves. I held on to him and would not let him go.” – Song of Solomon 3:4_

The words come out as a monosyllable. He shifts his feet, as if he was shuffling pebbles, his gaze, no, his entire face averting yours although your fingers remain intertwined, which gives you hope, - and courage to repeat your sentiment, _I love you_ , tracing the heights and valleys of his knuckles with your thumb. “I’m in love with you. I want to be with you.”

When his reply remains absent you remove your hand to tuck an invisible tress behind your ear. The inside of your palm is damp and smells of him.

“You don’t have to say it back. You don’t have to say anything, I just - wanted you to know.”

For all your best intentions of altruism, the coldness of settling dread creeps up from the pit of your stomach, tormenting and painfully foreboding. You hope that he says something before it reaches your heart.

Your wish is granted. “Is not that,” he speaks, his voice hoarse and dry. “I haven’t told anyone I love’em in years. Not to their face, anyways. Didn’t go so well last time I did.”

“I’m not _her_ ,” you add, not even thinking. Your voice is calm. Your heart is not. Arthur looks at you, puzzled. “Um, th- Mary, I, erm, read in your journal, remember.

The reminder prompts a chortle. “That you ain’t,” he concurs, cooking a brief, lopsided grin that fades into somberness as he reaches out to cup your face, whisking away a tear you didn’t even know was there. “I need to be honest with you. I’m a wanted man. You’n me, it ain’t gonna be easy.”

You nod. The law’s relentless, almost rabid determination to hunt down every last one of his kind in the name of taming the west is wildly antagonistic to a settled, peaceful life raising a family. Add to that your disapprobation of the outlaw lifestyle coupled with your ties to this place by family, work, Anna’s grave, and the thought of making his way of life yours seems all the more unthinkable.

But alas, a life without Arthur is also unthinkable.

“Perhaps a deal can be settled with the law, or-” Introspection has your voice fade mid-sentence. Perhaps it is time you start to live for the future instead of being stuck in the past, like this town has been for the last century. It would be unfair of you to expect him to give up all he’s ever known, to change his life so radically, if you are not willing to do the same.

“Or we can move somewhere where the law can’t find us. You and me, _– this,_ it’s worth fighting for.”

“I-I wouldn’t even know where to start, all my life I-I’ve been… living a bad life. Done bad things. Hurting folks, innocent folks. Hurting you.”

Arthur’s deeply ingrained convictions from a lifetime as an outlaw leaves much to be learned of the law-abiding, virtuous life. Disagreements and heated arguments are inescapable. A long and arduous journey lies ahead as you, in spite of your different walks of life, learn how to share a life – together, augmenting unity over dismay, comfort over confront. To build instead of tear down. You think of his journal entry about _seeking peace, away from the nonsense and lies_. After drenching his sorrows and regrets, the _nonsense and lies,_ in beer and in spirits he’d come to you, _seeking peace_. And you refuse to be discouraged.

"Start here, with _me_ ,” you whisper, reclaiming his hand. “We start here, you and me."

His eyes meet yours again, but this time they are different. In them you see gratitude, humbleness and a faint trace of - hope? Your foreheads touch, then your noses, ensuing a moment of affection expressed in eskimo kisses until your lips are as close as is possible without touching.

You sit still, motionless, so close to him, _so close,_ in torment and agony, in yearn, _in hope_ that your differences will prove to be a strength rather than a weakness. That your, for the most part, placid and good-natured demeanor will help ease his spirit and assuage his impatience, as will his determination and judgement give you courage to pursue your newfound aspirations, like promoting further questions of female suffrage, while simultaneously dampen your propensity to heedless whims when agitated by provocation.

In this moment of sanguinity, you have hope, a genuine hope, that your divergences in disposition and in nature, in temper and in knowledge, in experience and understanding of the world will prove to be a blessing rather than a curse, uniting you rather than pulling you apart.

The warmth of his skin makes your own tingly and flushed, and a whisk of his breath makes you starving for the taste of him. A subtle moan escapes you, a result of the conjure of crude, raunchy images filling your head, so low that had he not been this close, it surely would’ve escaped him. It seems to stir something within him. You lift your chin, closing your eyes as his lips brush against yours.

The brief, tiniest breath of skin-to-skin makes it all the more erotic. A symphony of sentiments and sensations blossom within you like a morning glory opening its petals to the sun, sparking an entrancing tune of love and lust for this man, whom has ravished your heart. A tune of deep adoration and burning, carnal desire, a Song of songs rousing an avalanche of emotions flooding your every limb and vehemently penetrating bone and flesh, filling you with a raw, almost lascivious want in the sweetest, most exhilarating way. You glance down at his hands, longing, needing, _pining_.

In a fleeting moment of faltering self-control, you clutch his shirt. There is but a second of hesitation. Then, after an eternity of nudges, coy smiles, nervous twirling of locks, and casual, offhand touches he embraces you, one hand cradling your hair, and the other becoming intimately acquainted with the area between your shoulder blades before inching its way down to your waist. He lets out a groan as the tip of your tongue slides over his lips, gently but deftly coaxing them apart.

The moment is over as quickly as it had begun. Breaking the kiss, he cups your cheek with a hand big enough to cover your face. Large hands for a large man, yet so gentle. So wary of inadvertently hurting you. If only he knew how you ache him.

“You sure ‘bout this?” he asks with heaved breaths, and not without a hint of tremor.

You can’t help a suppressed titter. “Very much so. You?”

He nods and you gently pull at the lapels of his shirt, longing for the warmth of his lips again. He leans in for another kiss, then he retreats and his hands return to his lap, rubbing the fabric of his pants. Save from that one time with you, it’s been years since he gave himself to a woman, body and heart.

The blend of jittery unease, self-doubt and longing he exudes does not escape your notice. You start unbuttoning your blouse. His eyes trail your fingers unhooking one button at a time. You slowly slide the fabric aside, then you move on to your corset. He swallows, visibly. With a discreet parting of lips and a luster to his eyes he throws quick glances at your figure with a heat in his stare that has your cheeks go fiery hot. Rapid but subtle movements of his bluish-green suggest an oscillating attention between your eyes, lips, hands, and waist. Then his gaze dips, lower. His Adam’s apple bobs. You imagine how his heart must be pounding.

Arthur Morgan, fierce and hardened outlaw, master of the very-scary-looking-angry-man guise, and one you’ve seen stand unshaken and unfazed against cocked hammers, the angry mob of Rhodes’ most purist inhabitants, penalizing strikes of the dull end of a shotgun, and blazing gunfire. Yet here he is, diffident and dumbstruck at the sight of your naked breasts under a see-through camisole. You find it endearing, - and more than a bit amusing.

You glide your fingers over the translucent fabric. A wordless invite, amplified by a coquettish simper as you tantalizingly caress the heights and vales of your bosom with slow, titillating swirls. His jaw slackens and he shifts, wetting his lips with a flicker of his tongue which prompts you to tug at yours as you pull the camisole over your head, ever so slowly. Topless before his gaze, you remove the pins in your hair, one by one. When the last one is out you shake your head, freeing the imprisoned locks.

You run your fingers through unchained, free-flowing tresses, in the same motion reaching out to take his hand in yours. A sharp inhale hitches in his throat. Agile, trembly fingers, callous and raspy yet they feel so good against your delicate skin. The tour ends at the heightened curve of your chest. He cups the swell of your breast, brushing his thumb over your hardened nipple. You close your fingers over his.

He takes the hint. You arch your back as his mouth replaces his hand. You’ve been aching for this, for him, for so long that the mere sight of his lips closing around your nub triggers an impromptu, not-so-subtle moan. He looks up at you, astounded at first, then the corners of his lips curl upwards. You decide to own up to it by entangling your fingers in his hair, followed by a slight push at the back of his head.

 _Good choice._ With one hand on your back he pulls you close, trailing every bit of skin he can reach before cupping your exposed breast, while his mouth still lingers at the other one.

“Use your tongue.” The instruct comes out as one, lengthy gasp instantly followed by an influx of air.

And so he does.

You coax from him a squeeze. As he does, a whine escapes you and you press your palms against his hand and the back of his head in a silent plea to knead you harder. To suck at you harder. Just a little bit harder. _Yes!_ That’s it! You let out a loud whimper as his tongue flickers over your nipple, dark pink and sore from overstimulation.

You’ve never wanted anything in your life as much as you want him right here, right now and you are no longer able to mortify your desire for him. You know he wants you too. Palms flat to his chest you push him back far enough to unbutton his shirt. No, you don’t have the patience for this. You tear at his shirt. Buttons fly left and right. You don’t care. You’ll sew them back on later. You caress every hump, every dip, every blemish his chest has to offer with your hands and mouth. You don’t dwell on his scars. You don't want to awaken the memories connected to them. Instead, you recognize their presence with a light stroke of your fingertips, then you kiss them, acknowledging but without dwelling, thereby accepting the parts of his past, which will always be part of him.

He seems self-conscious, bashful even at your sudden, brazen and shameless desire for him, making you want him even more. You zealously unbutton his trousers as he makes quick work on your skirt, petticoat and drawers. After an eternity of teasing, tasting, touching, and smelling, you’re both naked in record time. You take your position underneath him, parting your legs in a wordless invite as you lock your gaze with his, placing both hands on his shoulders.

He doesn’t accept the invite. Instead he hovers over you, one arm stretched over your head, the other interweaving your hair in between his fingers. Physically, he is more than ready. The pressure against your thigh is a sure enough sign of _that_. You are at first puzzled by his dilatoriness in a situation where most men would unhesitantly and unapologetically take their pleasure, making you wonder whether he is still hesitant, savoring the moment, or just being a tease.

His eyes, which never leave your face, rapt with awe and lovey-dovey adoration allude to the second option. Miniscule movements of his bluish-green tell of a desire to have this very moment – you, bare, exposed, as nude as the day you were born, looking up at him with a luster to your eyes speaking of adoration and elation glued to his memory. You feel so loved, so cherished, so beautiful, like _a mare among Pharaoh's chariots_. It is in this moment you come to realize what a unique place you have in his heart, one that which no other can fill, making your own swell with a happiness you did not know was possible. You also come to realize, notwithstanding being wildly different emotions, concupiscence and wistfulness are indeed positively combinable.

As much as you enjoy the foreplay you can no longer endure another second of the torment that is Arthur’s tantalizing tease, intentional or not. You are more soaked than the Lemoyne wetlands, you are ripe and you are ready! You reach out to take him in your hand – only to be promptly stopped by his hand clasping your wrist. _Do_ _not arouse his desire - until he pleases_ _._ His intense stare combined with the grip on your wrist sends flares of heat straight to your hub. The sharp intake of breath and parting of lips on your end does not go unnoticed. Oh, how you wish he’d tighten his grip a little bit more, enough for you to feel a whiff of pain.

You twist free and close your fingers over his. You let out a soundless gasp as he slides your folds apart and commence stroking the soft, slick, and sensitive tissue between your wide-open legs. Your response to his touch prompts from him quiet chortles, and he rewards you by curling two fingers inside you, hitting _that_ spot. You grind against his hand, effectively trapping him between your heat and your own hand, guiding his.

Arthur brushes his lips over your mouth and your cheek before moving to nibble your earlobe and down the length of your neck, no doubt leaving behind bite marks. With delight you imagine trailing a path of tiny, red spots in front of the mirror. Love marks left behind by Arthur. A telltale, visible sign of your mutual crave, a thought that sets of a heavenly spark at your carnal epicenter of throbbing desire. You keep grinding against him as you whisper words of encouragement to urge him on, though the whispers soon enough morph into lecherous, pleading moans.

“Ain’t a prettier sight than a woman enjoying herself,” he chuckle-breathes close to your ear, fondling you, prodding you, and stretching you with resolve and dexterity. Your hand, that was piloting his, is now clinging to his back instead. He moves the fingers inside of you halfway out and thrusts them back in again. And again, and again. All while his thumb is stroking _that_ spot with just the right amount of pressure.

“That’s right. Keep makin’ those sounds, Princess.”

And again!

Sensing your tautness, he widens his movements, circling your nub but not directly touching except for the occasional flick of his thumb, right up until you are tethering right at the edge - in which he promptly removes his hand.

And with that, he takes you.

It was far easier accepting him when it was you on top. Though the fleeting pain is hastily replaced by pleasure as your sheath adjusts to his girth. Sweet, delicious pleasure, increasing proportionally to his deepened entry. Arthur caresses your hair and trails kisses along your temple, barely moving his hips.

“Tell me if you want me to stop.”

You know it’s well meant but now you’re just about done. You grab a hold of his jaw. “Listen Arthur,” you purr, your voice husky and low. “I have you right where I want you.” Still clenching his jawline, you wrap your legs tight around him, squeezing your calves against his buttocks, thus pushing him deeper inside of you. A low, rough, purr-like growl escapes his lips.

“I want you, _ah,_ right, - here.”

A newfound validation, that is nothing short of heavensent for his self-assurance as a lover. His thrusts intensifies and what start out as low grunts quickly turns into semi-loud growls as he fucks you hard and fast, leaving behind a promise of bruises and ache at the inside of your thighs to come, which brings about an audible heightening to your arousal. Your fingers dig into the flesh of his chest, shoulders and neck as you grind against him, accompanied by breathy moans and loud whimpers, raunchy and lewd.

You’re undeniably gushing out all sorts of randy noises but at the moment, you’re so into it you can barely register your own voice. Arthur’s groans however, reach your ears just fine. His raspy voice, making all sorts of growls, huffs and grunts in response to the pleasure you’re giving him, is what sends you over the edge. You let your climax be heard as you arch your back and cling onto his shoulders, relishing every thrust and ensuing wave of shiver.

The moment you’re down from your high, he pulls out with the intent of stroking himself to release, though you have other plans. Your muscles limp from the aftershock of orgasm you plump to your knees, replacing his hand with yours. He lets you and leans into the backrest, pleasure radiating from his every feature as you commence stroking him. He closes his eyes, savoring your touch, oblivious to you leaning forward and opening your mouth. The thought of what you’re about to do, something so taboo, so _forbidden_ and unspoken of in the eyes of high society is as exhilarating as the act itself. You let out a soft moan as you unhurriedly slide down his length.

“What a-“ he blurts.

You place a hand flat on his hip, hoping he takes the hint. He does. You don’t bother teasing him as he’s already taut. Feeling his body sink into the fabric again you pick up speed, pleasing him with your hand and mouth, tasting not only him but yourself as well, a rousing reminder of the intimacy you've just shared. The feel of his hand at the back of your head induce a fleeting glance up at his face, painted by pleasure and concentration, and his chest heaving and falling in quickened, uneven breaths promptly followed by an unwitting jolt forward, accompanied by a loud, lasting grunt.

“Imma- I- _ah!_ ”

The warning, or the assembly of vowels you think is meant as one, and that taut stance. He’s close. He curls his fingers into your hair while fighting that desirous impulse, the _need_ to ram your head down his length. You let out a hum, though due to your filled-up cavity it comes out as a grunt.

That, and a glance down at your puffy, swollen lips around him, going up and down his length, is all it takes. One-two-three shallow thrusts later, and a loud grunt followed by saltiness washing over your tongue are telltale signs of his release, and you gladly take him, all of him.

Motionless and panting exhaustedly with flushed cheeks and afterglow-heavy eyes you both take a moment to catch your breaths. You are still on your knees, resting your head in his lap. His head is tossed back as he cradles your hair. Then he pulls you up onto his lap and wraps his arms around you, making you curl up like a ball.

“T’was – something,” he grins.

“T'was perfect,” you breathe as he places a series of soft kisses on your forehead, lifting your chin to meet his lips and interlacing his fingers with yours. He continues to pepper your mouth, nose and cheeks with butterfly kisses, chuckling at your crinkled nose.

You lazily hoist off the couch and clean spilled coffee and each other to giggles and titters and tender words, after which you retreat to bed where Arthur welcomes you back into his arms. That is all the cover you need in the hot, Lemoyne summer night. You curl up to his chest with a blissful smile.

He strokes your hair to gentle, languid kisses. Not before long, he moves to nibble your ear and trailing soft, titillating nibbles down your jawline, neck, collarbone – lower. As he reaches the swell of your breasts you come to realize he’s not going to let you sleep just yet. You sink your shoulders into the mattress and let out a muffled groan, relishing how his lips and hands trail your curves, eventually finding their way back to your breasts.

He replaces his mouth with his hands as he moves closer and closer to the heat budding once again at the hearth of your core. You draw a sharp intake of breath as he starts kissing the sides of your folds, making you ravish in delightful anticipation as he opens you up with calloused hands gliding against the curves of your hip, until they find their position. 

With one hand on your tummy and the other around your thigh he trails kisses up and down your leg and up again before coming to rest at the center of your heat. His lips brush over the parted crease between your legs, sliding ever so gently over the soft, slick and sensitive inner folds, finding - and kissing your swollen, glossy nub before moving on to pepper your other thigh with kisses, making you sigh deeply in both delight, frustration and anticipation.

“Patience, sweetheart.”

“Arthur,” you breathe.

“You all right?”

He locks gaze with yours. A cobweb-thin, lustrous thread reminiscent of the finest silk between his bottom lip and your skin stirs from you an inaudible gasp, perceptible only by a slight increase of distance between your parted lips, yet enough for him to notice. He continues to trail tantalizing kisses up and down the inside of your thigh, all whilst holding your gaze. There is a discreet shimmer along his upper lip, you know from what, making you shudder in delight as you think of where his mouth was just a moment ago.

“I need-” you whisper, nearly panting. “…more.”

You arch your hips, begging him to go back down. He accepts with a self-satisfied grin that he tries, and fails, to hide with the tilt of his chin as he goes down to savor you with the same ravenous voracity as if he was gobbling on a succulent, ripe peach. The moment is _oh, so sweet_ but short-lived as he stops the moment you get too squirmy, instead peppering kisses around your navel as he taunts you with the bare touch of his fingers, chuckling at your unfulfilled cries.

“You fucking tease,” you hiss.

Another chortle escapes him, clearly amused by, not to mention ravishing in your need for more, a need aptly revealed by the damp spot you are lying on. He goes back down, only to move away just when you think he’s going to give you what you yearn for so badly. You close your palm over his head and steer him to where you want him.

At last, his mouth wraps around your hearth, his tongue stoking your desire like bellows to a smoldering fire, promptly bringing you closer and closer. You entangle your fingers into his hair, powerless to the desirous temptation of a downward push to bring him closer to your center. Just a little. Then a little bit more. Then a lot more. He doesn’t seem to mind, instead pleasuring you with ardor, drawing from you breathless gasps and lascivious moans. He gives, generously, and you take, brazenly, shamelessly, flagrantly, unapologetically, until soul-numbing waves course through you for the second time in the same night, reeling your body and soul into a rapturous bliss. You tremble and twitch, you close your legs around him and pull his hair, all while crying out his name again and again.

“I’m sorry,” you pant, instantly letting go, your taut body still shuddering as you’ve yet to fully ride out your climax. “I’m so sorry. Did it hurt y- _?_ _Ahh!_ ”

With one arm circling your rear and the other holding onto your leg, he leeches onto you and continues to give you pleasure, not stopping until every muscle in your body start to relax, then he looks up at you with a satisfied grin.

“Don’t you worry ‘bout me,” he reassures, wiping his chin. “I want you to enjoy yourself, darlin’.”

Him calling you darling sends another kind of tingle down your spine. Your smile reveals you and he crawls up to wrap you in his arms and kiss your forehead as your breathing slows down to a steady rhythm. Your gaze sweeps up, meeting his with a warmth that does an excellent job at keeping the hotspots below your eyes ablaze.

“Y’know, I’ve always thought of home as someplace far out west,” he mumbles, trailing kisses along your pulse to the nape of your neck. “Always thought the open land of the untamed west would be the only place that’d ever feel like home. But now,” sensing the pending smile in his voice, you turn to meet his eye, “now I think home can be anywhere. As long as I’m with you.”

A bittersweet sting swells in your chest, effectively ceasing the budding tug at the corner of your mouth, instead replacing it with a poignant jut of your bottom lip you try to hide by planting a kiss on his shoulder. He is not fully yours. Not yet. For now, all you can do is to treasure each day, each tryst, and hope- no, long for the day you will bear his name, and night when he will release himself inside of you, joined in each other’s arms, as one.

Arthur responds by pulling you as close as physically possible. “We’ll figure it out, Princess.” The wisp of his breath tickles your ear. “But there ain’t much we can do now besides sleeping.”

You don’t want to miss a second of this precious moment when he is yours and yours alone. But you barely had any sleep last night. Add to that two pleasure peaks and drowsiness is settling fast.

“Will you be here when I wake up?”

“I promise.”

“Pinkie promise?”

His smile returns, and he pulls your flexed finger with his equivalent, followed by a chaste kiss to your forehead. You snuggle up to him, finding a comfortable position. The moment lasts for about one heartbeat before you rise to your elbows.

“Arthur, what do we say when people start asking us how we met?”

“We just tell’em the truth.” He lifts his head just enough for you to see the playful glint in his eyes. “I came by unexpected one night and you couldn’t keep yer hands off me.”

The tongue-in-cheek response is aptly accentuated by a lopsided, impish grin. Your frown has him choking down a snigger and you poke his chest with your elbow, albeit it comes off more as a nudge. He feigns pain by collapsing on the mattress, clutching his chest. It is in this moment that Arthur Morgan hears you laugh for the first time. A gaily, spontaneous, heartfelt laugh.

And he remembers what happiness feels like.

He runs his index along your temple and jawline and twirls your hair, his tone changing from jest to somber. “Now you sleep. I’ll be right here.”

“I love you so much,” you whisper, with a thickness to your voice hinting at the bittersweetness still lingering. The lock around his fingers falls to the pillow as he interlaces his fingers in between yours.

“Love you too, Sweet pie.”

At every turn, life, or fate if you believe in that sort of thing, has brought you together, two lost souls, like ships adrift at sea, both in your own ways unwilling to conform to societal expectations. You’ve found each other again and again and now, as you lie entangled in his arms surrounded by the slanting rays of evening sun, you never wish to be parted from him ever again.

As the sun dips below the horizon you fall asleep to the lulling sound of Arthur’s heartbeat, your last thought before dozing off being that when it comes to Arthur and lovemaking, heartfelt and tender and rough and steamy are not necessarily mutually exclusive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading my story, and for all your attention. Thank you for your time.
> 
> I don't know if I am quite ready to let go of this series yet. Part 2 is surely concluded, but I might write a part 3, where they find the rest of that treasure map and go on a treasure hunt and get their proper, happy ever after with a conclusion to the van der Linde's as well. Or, I might just do a oneshot where they reenact their first encounter. Or, both. Both is good.


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